


The End Of Gifts

by merulanoir



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, M/M, Slow Burn, Starting Over, What if Regis got turned into a human?, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-10-17 13:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20621750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: Addiction is larger than life, Regis thinks in one of his clearer moments, because it takes and takes, until there isn’t anything left. It is the ultimate consummation of a persona, inverted to eat itself away to nothingness.There are so many nightmares, hallucinations, and physical pains that he loses count. Regis is petrified he will end up hurting Geralt, because his friend is the focal point of everything Regis has denied from himself; if and when he breaks, Geralt will not be safe.When the world collapses, something new starts to emerge from the ruins of a life. Sometimes losing who you are means finding that again.





	1. Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY WOW here we go!
> 
> This fic was such a joy to write, and I have the privilege to name my betas here: [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) (in no specific order). Thank you for undertaking this monster of a project, I love you all. <3
> 
> Another mention: [Kiko](https://twitter.com/ConAffettoKiko) is the person behind the chapter illustrations! I still can't look at them without crying. <3

#### 

####  **Prologue**

Regis had thought his life reached a low point when he was chopped into pieces by angry villagers. Spending fifty years underground tortured by bloodlust and loneliness were bad, and he generally thought nothing could possibly be worse. Proving himself wrong is not pleasant, and the first spark of anxiety spreads until he is consumed by it.

After Tesham Mutna Regis feels like his physical body is creaking and groaning. It’s an effort to hold on to his human guise, and he catches himself slipping; it’s minor, so small even Geralt doesn’t notice, but it’s enough to worry him.

He called what happened the blood lust passing, but it was very far from the truth. Regis originally suggested Tesham Mutna, and the ancient cage, because he knew the blood lust hitting would overrule his mental faculties with no mercy. They needed the blood of a higher vampire who was in a highly agitated state, and he had to do it. For Dettlaff, and for Geralt. He also knew it would render him a beast.

But the blood lust didn’t pass, not as the witcher likely perceived it to. Regis wrestled his brain back under control, and when he was fairly sure he wasn’t about to lunge for his friend’s throat, he bluffed enough for Geralt to believe he was back to normal. They left Tesham Mutna, and Regis hoped he would never have to see the place again.

“Geralt?”

The witcher makes a soft, questioning sound from where he is dozing and detoxing the last of the Resonance out of his system. Regis watches the cat eyes blink open and the haze of sleep clear from them.

“What happened to the wight?” Regis asks. It’s idle curiosity, he tells himself. Anything to distract himself from the ache deep in his bones. It hasn’t been this bad since… He doesn’t even know. Not after Dillingen, certainly.

“Broke the curse,” Geralt says. He sits up and stretches. The dark veins have started to fade and his smile is no longer nauseous. Just tired and familiar.

“You did? How did it come to pass?” Regis shifts where he sits, trying to find a position where everything doesn’t hurt. Geralt, true to habit, doesn’t miss the restlessness.

“You okay?” he asks instead of sating Regis’ curiosity. “You don’t look too good.”

Regis shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me.” When he sees the unhappy twist to Geralt’s mouth, Regis forces a smile. “This will pass. Just give it time.”

“You went through something bad there,” Geralt says, as if he never heard Regis’ assurances. “And you haven’t had blood since—”

“Geralt. Please.” Regis hears the pleading note that threatens to make itself known. He inhales and lets the air slip out slowly—through his mouth, to avoid smelling too much. Still, his olfactory glands prickle before trying to send out a command to his brain. He ignores it.

Geralt glares at him, but lets the subject drop. Not for good, Regis suspects.

“The wight was a cursed woman. I found the wording of the curse and figured out a way to break it.”

Regis blinks. “What happened to her?”

Geralt’s smile is less haunted when it appears again. “She’s back at Corvo Bianco. My majordomo’s looking after her.” He looks away. “Her name is Marlene de Trastamara.”

“I don’t recall anyone by that name living around here,” Regis muses. He is uncomfortably aware of a cold sweat that refuses to go away.

Geralt sighs. “Her family’s most likely dead.”

The silence that falls is comfortable, and Regis lets them both sit in it. He knows Geralt is trying to decide something when he goes quiet and frowns, like whatever he stares at has personally offended him. It’s endearing.

“I’m gonna let her stay.” 

Regis looks at Geralt and smiles. “Truly?” 

The witcher nods and bites his lip, still considering something. Regis isn’t surprised, not really. Geralt has a good heart, and someone in dire need of help is once again about to benefit from it.

“Is she a good person?” Regis asks to fill the silence. To his surprise, Geralt snorts.

“She got cursed for refusing to feed a beggar.”

“Well.” Regis doesn’t know what to make of the information. Geralt’s smile turns dry.

“But she has suffered enough. And I think I know who cursed her. Pissing him off is as good a reason as any to help her.”

“_Him?_” Regis echoes. Genuine interest sparks, like a warm flame momentarily driving away seeping cold. Geralt drags a hand through his hair. He looks tired again.

“Don’t know who—or what—he is. I banished him to another dimension to help a guy who was about to lose his soul.”

“I sense there is a story to this,” Regis says, hopeful. Geralt only nods.

“Kind of. I can tell it when my brain feels less like someone stuck their fingers in it.” 

Regis can tell Geralt notices his disappointment when he cracks a fond smile. “His name is Gaunter O’Dimm, and he’s powerful like nothing I’ve ever met. Turning a human into a spotted wight shouldn’t be possible.”

Regis feels a mixture of curiosity and dismay. “You claim this Gaunter O’Dimm cast the curse?”

“Marlene’s description matches, and there are too many common elements for my liking.”

Regis nods, trying to gather his thoughts. His head hurts; a deep ache at the base of his skull. It thrums with malice, as if wanting to make him know it will be here to stay.

“Is he a demon?”

Geralt shrugs. “I have no idea, honestly. He called himself Master Mirror. Makes deals with people and usually tricks them by some play of words or such. I played him for Olgierd’s soul and won, but I don’t think he will ever be gone for good. His kind always comes back.”

Regis is about to ask something more, but Geralt starts coughing, and by the time it stops he is exhausted again. Regis lets the topic slip his mind, because they have Dettlaff to track and a blackmailer to find.

He hopes for the lust for blood to pass. No, _ hope _is too neutral a word; he yearns for the semblance of the peace he managed to build for himself over decades and centuries. He fought so hard for a chance to build a life and practice medicine without temptation, and facing the prospect of losing it terrifies him.

The thirst doesn’t go away. It blots out light, soils the small moments of victory, until Regis almost cracks; Beauclair is awash with blood, and he very nearly caves in. Regis doesn’t know how he manages to hold himself together in the end. He clings to Geralt’s voice, focusing on its familiar cadence, and tells himself that soon this will be over. Soon everything will be back to normal again.

It never goes back to normal.

#### 1.

**Desperation**

/dɛspəˈreɪʃn

_ Noun_**_; _ ** _a state of despair, typically one which results in rash or extreme behaviour. _

Regis is not unfamiliar with making bold choices. His youth is a patchwork of memories everyone involved would much like to leave be, himself included. It is a penance, self-inflicted, to go through them every now and then. _ Look at yourself_, he says, over and over again. _ Look at what you did, and never repeat it. _

Later, after a night in Fen Carn, Regis made other choices that himself and others deemed brash. If someone were to ask why he departed his cottage to travel with a witcher, there would be no definite answer. The real question, Regis knows, is this: why did he choose, over and over again, to trust in Geralt? Why does he choose to do so now, when they have both survived the ordeal with Dettlaff and Syanna, when the duchess has released the witcher from the prison and banned him from the palace, and when life approaches some semblance of peace?

It makes him smile. Regis knows his reasons are not reasonable, pun wholeheartedly intended. He knows the witcher is his friend, and that is the long and short of it.

He could dwell on the trust they share, or on how Geralt never lets Regis feel like less of a person despite his true nature. Regis knows Geralt is a loner, yet Regis’ company is always welcome; there is always a place for him around the dinner table at Corvo Bianco. Geralt has settled down, and he seems to expect Regis to become a permanent fixture in his life.

Regis wants that. There are things that he deems invaluable and Geralt, just as he is, is at the top of his list. Regis would give anything to settle down, especially if it involves the witcher. He insists on calling their bond friendship, because any other name would be complicated and impossible. Taking a single step closer to Geralt would be too intimate, because immortal creatures are not supposed to get attached. Their existence is supposed to be one of observation and seclusion; ontological superiority at its finest.

But Regis has eschewed his kind and their ways for so long, what is one more transgression in the long list? Why couldn’t he assimilate, settle in to the best of his ability? It would mean hiding his true nature from almost everyone, but that is nothing new. He’s done so before.

“You cannot run from your nature,” Orianna said when they last met. Regis warned, no, threatened her to stop using the orphanage as her blood bank. Some day Geralt would find out, and then Regis would once again be forced to choose between his kin and the man he wanted to choose over everything else.

“You are not well. Your spirit is slipping away,” Dettlaff said when Regis found him. His blood brother was grieving, and refused his help. Regis spent two weeks trying to talk some sense into Dettlaff, until he came to the inevitable conclusion that he wouldn’t be able to convince even himself of the things he was saying. 

It hurt, because they shared a bond so profound that understanding should come naturally. Regis called Dettlaff a brother, and he wasn’t exaggerating with the title. Their friendship was as important as the one with Geralt, just fundamentally different. Dettlaff refusing to talk or accept his company cut like no knife ever could.

He left Nazair, tired and depressed, and returned to Corvo Bianco. Geralt welcomed him with a smile, and Regis couldn’t resist accepting the hug his friend offered. The blood in Geralt’s veins sang to him, but for a short moment Regis allowed himself to believe he was wanted somewhere. He still had one friend left.

But settling down when every single moment is laced with temptation is hard. The shadow of Tesham Mutna is present every single day, and Regis feels his resolve crumble. There are days when he has to lock himself away, hide in his crypt and hold his breath until his head is swimming, because the world is too alive, and he can’t partake without becoming the monster he is underneath it all. Those days he remembers regenerating in the dark stillness of the grave, and if it had not driven him mad with loneliness Regis wouldn’t hesitate to chop himself to pieces again.

Anything to escape the inescapable.

***

Regis is familiar with desperation, in all its nuances. It is a word favored by poets, Dandelion in particular, but the prose is so far from reality there might as well be two words with almost opposite meanings. Poetic desperation is grand gestures, moonlit confessions, events culminating in tragedy to grant the audience the catharsis they seek. It’s haunting and beautiful, never once touching the stain of life.

Real life is ugly, Regis thinks. Desperation, as he understands it, is the slow erosion of sanity. It’s nightmare sweat plastering his hair to his forehead when he jolts awake and expects to see the crypt door littered with corpses; it’s leaving dinner with a rushed excuse, because another moment indoors with two humans might test his resolve too much; it’s lying, so much lying.

Regis has always been a splendid liar. Being able to spin stories and captivate his audience came naturally to him, as soon as he found a way to overcome his crippling shyness. Lies are stories at their core. 

In his youth he didn’t lose sleep over it, because there simply weren’t many things that mattered enough, but lying to Geralt is difficult. Regis hates doing it and thus his body threatens to give away his dishonesty, on top of Geralt knowing him so well he is able to see something is wrong. Geralt might not be aware of just how badly Regis is forced to fight his own nature, but he knows things are not as normal and fine as Regis tries to make them appear.

In the moments when Regis can’t do anything except curl up on his mattress and count the seconds until the worst fits of bloodlust pass, he longs for someone to confide in. Being alone is exhausting, and suffering in silence isn’t even nearly as noble as stories make it out to be. Telling Geralt is out of the question, but that doesn’t stop Regis from wanting to. It’s a dangerous lure, honesty and reciprocation, when one is supposed to reveal the ugliest parts of oneself. 

Addiction is larger than life, Regis thinks in one of his clearer moments, because it takes and takes, until there isn’t anything left. It is the ultimate consummation of a persona, inverted to eat itself away to nothingness.

There are so many nightmares, hallucinations, and physical pains that he loses count. Regis is petrified he will end up hurting Geralt, because his friend is the focal point of everything Regis has denied from himself; if and when he breaks, Geralt will not be safe.

As a last resort, Regis needles the witcher into an argument that passes over to become an actual row, the first one they have ever had. Regis tries to fling every insult he can think of, but it comes out too broken; Geralt is hurt, but there is a look in his eyes that exclaims worry. 

Afterwards, Regis collapses and misses his bed, and as he lies on the stone floor of the crypt, an unconscious idea takes root and festers inside his head.

***

There is no fanfare to the man’s arrival.

One moment Regis is alone, and the next he knows he is not. When he lifts his head, there is a man-shaped being sitting on the sarcophagus that dominates the lower level of the crypt. He is looking around with mild interest, dressed in clothes made of cheap fabrics. There is no scent to him; he is devoid of anything that Regis would tag as ‘human’ in his head.

“That looks very uncomfortable, if I may say so,” Gaunter O’Dimm points out when his gaze finally lands on Regis. He has brown eyes, but without the nuance of color. They are just brown, and if there wasn’t a spark burning behind them the man would look lifeless.

Regis makes it upright, but his head is swimming. The argument with Geralt burns his mind almost as badly as the bloodthirst. Regret, fear, longing. With some effort, Regis descends the steps and leans on the damp stone wall to observe his visitor.

Gaunter O’Dimm grins. “Good evening. You have been calling for me.”

“I have not.” The words fall flat even to his own ears. Maybe Regis has summoned O’Dimm here, just not on purpose.

“There is something you want,” O’Dimm says as if Regis did not speak. “Something that makes the air around you ripple with desperation.”

“Get out of my head,” Regis says and narrows his eyes. He is not helpless, far from it, but this...being makes his skin prickle. 

O’Dimm looks at him again. “I don’t need to get inside your head, vampire. Your considerable mental faculties combined with that much hopelessness are enough of a giveaway.” He purses his lips, and Regis can’t tell whether the expression is mocking or considering. Perhaps it’s both. There is only one stub of a candle burning, but Gaunter O’Dimm appears to have no trouble seeing right through Regis.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” O’Dimm pulls him out from his contemplation. 

Regis bares his teeth.

“I didn’t ask for help,” he spits out, and O’Dimm looks at him, unimpressed.

“Then why was I able to walk the aether here with no trouble? Why did I know exactly where to find you, when your kind are fundamentally untraceable, hmm?” He lets his words echo for a second. “You knew my name, vampire. You knew of me, enough to start hoping for something. You can’t lie to me.”

Regis sags against the wall and drags a hand down his face, forcing it to shift back into its human guise. O’Dimm watches him raptly, and the unblinking stare makes Regis feel naked.

“Fine. Maybe I did,” Regis finally says.

“And I already said I won’t help you,” Gaunter O’Dimm finishes for him in a cheerful tone. He jumps to his feet, and before Regis knows what he is doing, he is reaching for the man, to stop him from leaving—

His hand closes around nothing, and he whirls around. O’Dimm is leaning on the balustrade of his living quarters, watching him with interest.

“You _ are _desperate,” he says almost gently. Regis blinks, and the creature is back, sitting on the sarcophagus and examining his nails. “How do you know of me? I have never interacted with your kind, vampire.”

“My name is Regis,” Regis says before it occurs to him that giving his name to a being like Gaunter O’Dimm is not the wisest of actions. Being called ‘vampire’ just reminds him too much of his current sorry state. His head throbs and he is covered in cold sweat, and his brain feels stupid and slow.

O’Dimm looks at him for a long while. “You know my name, and you must know I’m the merchant of mirrors. I do business with humans, and humans only.” For the first time his voice approaches conversational. 

“Why?” Regis asks. O’Dimm shrugs.

“Humans are delightful. They dance and dance until their feet fall off, and then I collect my due. Playing with them is terribly amusing.”

“You claim their souls.” Regis tests the waters, and when O’Dimm narrows his eyes he knows he is onto something.

“That you wouldn’t know unless you have spoken with someone who knows too much for their own good.” O’Dimm taps his lip, thinking aloud. “Olgierd Von Everec has disappeared, not that I wouldn’t be able to find him again should I want to. The lady in blue swore an oath to never speak of me. That leaves…” He draws in a breath, eyes lighting up with something unpleasant.

“Geralt of Rivia has a vampire friend.”

Regis can’t stop it: at the sound of Gaunter O’Dimm speaking Geralt’s name a shudder tears through him. The next heartbeat heralds a fear that freezes the breath in his lungs. How could he be so stupid he’d invoke a being as dangerous as O’Dimm, and then reveal he knows one of the vanishing few who have outwitted him?

Gaunter O’Dimm flickers out of existence and appears, standing right in front of him. Regis’ teeth flash in warning, but the man ignores him.

“Geralt told you about me, and your pain was strong enough to call me here. You want something _ impossible_.” The way he says the last word makes it sound like he maybe means _ amusing _ or _ forbidden_.

“What is it? What could an immortal creature want from Gaunter O’Dimm, the Man of Glass?” For a second, there are flames flickering behind O’Dimm’s gaze, but when Regis blinks they are gone.

Regis stands unmoving. His heart is hammering away, because he knows he has made a mistake of a profound scale. He wants his wits and silver tongue back, he wants to make sure this _ thing _will never lay a finger on Geralt, but all he has is the echoing nothing that eats everything he is.

“You want to protect the witcher,” O’Dimm says when the silence stretches. He crosses his arms. “From me, yes, that much is clear, but there is something else, too. That impossible bit.”

“Leave,” Regis says. He stands up straight and faces O’Dimm. He hurts, but if he endangers Geralt, he won’t be able to live with himself.

“Yourself.” O’Dimm’s voice is but a whisper, but the right guess lights up his face with incredulity. “You are afraid of hurting him, because you—”

Regis turns into mist and materializes again at the far end of the crypt. His chest heaves and he fears he might be sick. A long moment drags itself by him, and then the vertigo passes. When he turns, O’Dimm is watching him closely.

“You are sick, and you fear you will hurt the witcher.” He doesn’t need to check whether he guessed right. “Why would you care?”

Regis stares at O’Dimm and he hasn’t got a clue what he might say. Somehow the man has managed to suss out so much without any input from him, and Regis fears what else he might uncover should the conversation drag on any longer.

“You said you won’t help me,” Regis rasps.

“You have no soul to give,” O’Dimm sighs. When Regis stares at him, he grins. “Humans are simple creatures. When they die, their spirit leaves, and I take what’s mine. You,” he points a sooty finger at Regis, “can’t die. Therefore you have no spirit for me to claim.”

Regis nods. He knows what he is. No matter how much he wishes he could change, the fundamental parts remain the same.

“But for argument’s sake, let’s talk,” O’Dimm says. “What would you ask, specifically? You have my word that no deal will be made.” He holds his hand up, palm towards Regis. 

“Why do you ask?” Regis’ skin is crawling. O’Dimm looks like a human, but he feels _ wrong_.

“I am dreadfully curious, something I’m certain you can sympathize with, seeing as you have tried and succeeded in living among humans,” O’Dimm says. He smiles, the same ugly expression that makes Regis want to snarl. 

When he still doesn’t answer, the man sighs. “Will you tell me if I also give you my word I won’t go out of my way to harm the witcher? My business with him is concluded, and he is of the spiteful sort. Theoretically he could make my life a touch harder, which I am not interested in at the moment.”

Maybe there is some magic to his promise, or maybe Regis’ malaise is just bad enough, but he crosses his arms and sighs. To his horror, his throat feels hot and tight as he allows himself to imagine, just a little. 

The truth is, Regis has not thought about what he wants, because allowing the nebulous, hurting wish to form into words means acknowledging it; if it has a name, he can long for it.

“I want to be free,” Regis says, his voice catching. He shakes his head to clear it. “The thirst for blood is too much. I can’t control it.”

“An addict,” O’Dimm says, and Regis nods. 

“I managed to suppress it for many years, but after recent...events it has been getting out of hand.” It’s more than he meant to say, but O’Dimm looks satisfied. His unearthly eyes are boring into Regis.

“How quaint. A vampire who doesn’t wish to be a vampire.”

“It’s not what I am, but what I am capable of doing,” Regis quips, and it makes O’Dimm laugh.

“Oh, but those are the same thing!” he says, and once again there are flames behind his eyes. “They are one and the same, Regis. Your wound is who you are, and vice versa!” 

He doesn’t look disappointed in the least, and Regis levels him a glare. It’s easier to focus on the anger, even if it’s just for a moment. O’Dimm grins even wider when their eyes meet.

“Humans are so predictable. It’s refreshing to hear an honest request that is impossible.” He keeps on chuckling to himself, and the soft sound irks Regis.

“Why are you so happy about it?”

“In my line of work, Regis, there is no impossible,” O’Dimm says. He is suddenly serious again. “I am, therefore I do.”

“But you said you can’t help me,” Regis says. The anger is leaving him, and the hollow cold seeps back.

“You are addicted to blood because of what you are, at your very core,” O’Dimm says slowly. “That thirst is in you, _ it is you _. It’s not your fault, but it is essential to your state of being what you are; a higher vampire.”

Regis rubs his eyes. O’Dimm talks in circles, and Regis can see why Geralt was reluctant to speak of him; it’s exhausting, trying to keep up.

In that silent, tired second Regis looks up from the stone floor.

“What if I wasn’t a vampire?”

His words are quiet, but as he realizes what he has just said Regis feels the world tilt. His head spins, but O’Dimm’s eyes are burning again, and this time there is no mistaking the spark Regis inadvertently lit.

“_Oho_.” Now O’Dimm sounds profoundly intrigued. There is a half-formed smile hanging on his face like a piece of laundry that has been left out in the rain. They are silent for a long time. Then O’Dimm laughs and claps his hands, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

“I like you, Regis! Thinking outside the box!”

Regis waits, because now he is more afraid than before. It feels like O’Dimm is seeing him, bothering to truly watch, and Regis fears what he will witness.

“Yes,” O’Dimm whispers, taking a step closer and stopping when Regis goes stiff. “_Yes_. In theory… Oh, this is good.”

Regis almost holds his breath. Where there wasn’t much of anything, there is now a flicker of something ancient and dangerous. O’Dimm’s disguise almost peels off, and then he gives himself a little shake and it is once more in place: brown eyes and a bald head, shabby clothes, and a smile like a knife.

“So,” O’Dimm says with thinly-veiled glee. “Now we are getting somewhere. _ What if I wasn’t a vampire_? You have some brain in there, Regis.”

Regis blinks, but all the words he so likes have deserted him. O’Dimm waits, but when Regis stands mute, he cocks an eyebrow.

“There is the matter I initially mentioned. You lack a soul. You have nothing you could pay me with.”

Regis understands it then: he has started to hope. In a few seconds the darkness has been lit by a flame so tiny it threatens to gutter out, but it is there, and Regis wants to protect it. There have been so many dark days already, he can’t live without that light. He knows it.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to find words he didn’t ever think he’d need. His eyes feel wet, but he can’t summon the energy to care. He just wants to walk away from the dark chasm that is hiding behind every corner, ready to devour what little good there is in him.

“I’d give up my immortality.”

The silence is full of something, and when Regis finally dares to look up, he isn’t looking at O’Dimm anymore; there is a being that touches the aether, ripples across everything. It is older than anything Regis has ever seen, and it laughs when their gazes meet. The sound touches him, caressing his skin. It makes him feel dirty.

“You would give up your immortal life?”

Regis feels his lips move, but no sound comes out. He wants to say yes, he is burning up with the improbable hope, but he is so afraid it’s a trap. He fears he will only do more harm than good.

The being that must be O’Dimm, but which feels way too big to be contained in a human body, lets out a sound that could be a laughter or a snort.

“There is _ so much _ inside of you, but that one need rules over it all. Fine: you have my word that I will not use this to harm the witcher.” Energy swirls up, and Regis feels it burn him. He gasps as it slips in through the cracks of his being until it’s too close to his core, suffocating and _ alive_.

“I will never understand how it feels to adore something so fragile so much,” O’Dimm says, almost off-handedly, before focusing his multitude of gazes on Regis again.

“I ask you again, and this is your only chance to answer me: you would give up your immortal life, just so you would not need to be a vampire anymore, to be rid of the blood lust?”

Regis opens his mouth, closes it, and then whispers: “_Yes. _”

There is a split-second before the energy closes in, and there is perfect stillness inside of it. Regis feels the fear sink its claws deep, deeper than ever, but at the same time he is so relieved; his path was leading to a dead end, so jumping into thin air is as good an option as any.


	2. Apostasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta once again by this amazing trio: [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean).
> 
> Illustrations by [Kiko](https://twitter.com/ConAffettoKiko).
> 
> <3

** **

**Apostasy**

/əˈpɒstəsi/

_Noun;_ _the abandonment or renunciation of a religious or political belief or principle._

Geralt lies awake after Regis leaves. He stares at the ceiling for a few hours and then gives up on sleep. The estate is quiet as he slips out of the main building, and the cool summer night is beautiful. 

A half moon hangs in the sky, and the scenery is pretty enough to warrant a dozen paintings but Geralt hardly notices. His mind is too full of shards that cut him every time he tries to shift through the debris of the memory. 

He and Regis have never really fought before, and now that Geralt thinks back it starts to dawn on him how damn odd the whole thing was. Regis has been...withdrawn isn’t the word Geralt would use, but he can’t decide on another one. The vampire is there, always answers when Geralt calls for him, smiles and talks like he used to, but there is an invisible layer of _ something _between them. Geralt became aware of the new distance sometime after he got out of the Beauclair prison; gradually, because it’s so fine it’s barely there.

Part of the reason it was so hard for him to notice that something was wrong is that Regis has never worn his heart on his sleeve. The vampire is the best damn rhetorician Geralt has ever met, and thus is able to fool almost anyone when he wishes to hide something. In retrospect, Geralt started to trust Regis irrationally fast, given how little the vampire ever revealed of himself.

Geralt knows, deep inside his heart and mind, that Regis is worth the trust; every bit of it. Regis is warm and always ready to listen, rarely passes judgement, and Geralt holds him in such high regard it’s almost absurd. They should be worst enemies, and instead Geralt wouldn’t mind if Regis was present every single day of his life.

It’s a complicated feeling he has never truly dared to examine. As profound as Geralt’s friendship with Regis is, there has been a real possibility of slipping into the realm of _ something more_. Geralt shies away from it. He bungled up his entire love life once before with the djinn and the last wish, and it’s traumatic to recover from losing such a magical connection to someone. He’s not sure he could recognise what love feels like, after spending decades thinking he had it only to be stripped bare in seconds.

But Regis is hiding something new, and the feeling rankles at the edges of Geralt’s attention every time they meet. They have never been overly inclined to touching, but what little physical contact they shared before was dropped after life settled down; Regis was subtle enough to make it seem natural, but Geralt noticed. The times the vampire invaded his personal space, laid a hand on his arm, or even looked in his eyes a second or two longer than was necessary—all of those dwindled until they stopped altogether.

Regis has always carried himself in a way Geralt initially classified as poised, but which lately has become careful. He talks like he used to, laughs with his eyes more often than his voice, and joins Geralt for dinner several times a week. It should be normal and perfect and _ enough_, but it’s not.

Geralt itches to reach out, but he fears it’s not welcome. He fears he will drive Regis away altogether.

The argument began from something stupid. Geralt wants to think he started it himself, but the more he mulls things over while he walks around the quiet grounds of Corvo Bianco, the more it feels like Regis was trying to get him riled up. It ended with both of them shouting, which they have never done before. Geralt knows Regis was hurting; the vampire called him all manner of things, but underneath was something dark and fragile.

The last of his ire slips away and worry takes its place. Geralt stops as he reaches the stables and rubs his face. His chest is a knot of anxiety and longing. He hoped for so many things after getting Regis back, but the only thing that he never wanted to compromise was the safety of his friend. Geralt wants Regis to be happy, even if all they can ever be is close friends.

He makes his decision then. Geralt has been dealing with short-tempered people all his life, and one of them storming off in a huff wouldn’t surprise him. Regis, however, is nothing if not considerate and patient. Geralt needs to go find him, because there is something the vampire is hiding, and Geralt can’t help him like this. He can’t live with knowing that Regis is hurting.

Roach snorts at him when he saddles her up. Geralt runs a hand down her flank, and she shakes her head, long ago having become used to getting woken up at odd hours. Geralt steps back inside to dress up properly, buckling himself into a light set of armor, just in case. The cemetery is usually calm, but he is too familiar with his usual luck.

***

He knows something is wrong the second his feet hit the ground near the crypt. There is something in the air, not a smell, but a note of something sinister. Something he knows, Geralt realizes with a nasty jolt. It’s not a feeling so much as an embodiment cold intent, lingering wherever its caster walks.

Geralt runs down the crypt stairs and he knows right away that something bad is happening. He can smell the weird tang of ozone he smelled back at the ruined temple; something, someone is bending the fabric of reality, _ here_.

The main room is awash with manic lights and howling wind, and Geralt has to shield his eyes from the glare. He almost stumbles, and then his heart skips a beat. Over the mess of flying debris hitting walls and lights threatening to blind him, he hears it.

Someone shouts, and he knows that voice.

“Regis!” Geralt hears how much distress bleeds out of him, but he is past caring. Somehow O’Dimm is here and has found Regis. What does the cursed demon want? Does he want to hurt Geralt by attacking Regis, who is more important than anyone?

“_O’Dimm!_ Where the fuck are you?” Geralt bellows, over the uproar. He can taste the magic, same as when he was trapped in the Ofieri ship, but much more powerful. Geralt holds his silver sword with white knuckles as he struggles through the storm that has overtaken the crypt, and finally he sees O’Dimm.

He looks the same as he did when Geralt revealed him in the pool; not at all like a human, and more like something from nightmares. His snake-like eyes flick over to Geralt, and a grin splits his face.

“Well, well,” he laughs. His hands are threading magic into loops, which weave unto themselves, endlessly, making the world around them ripple and fracture. There is something at O’Dimm’s feet, and a cold hand clutches Geralt’s heart. It’s a human-shaped silhouette, unmoving and familiar.

“Leave him be!” Geralt shouts, feet slipping as the magic crests and falls madly around him. It’s unlike Yen’s magic, or Ciri’s; something raw and chaotic. “You hear me? Leave him alone!” His voice cracks, and hearing it makes O’Dimm laugh again.

“Oh, I knew this was going to be good,” he purrs, his voice somehow audible even as Geralt’s ears ring because the magic is howling as it swirls and threatens to make him fall over. The distance between him and O’Dimm doesn’t get any shorter.

_ He can’t lose Regis. _

O’Dimm turns to address the unmoving figure at his feet, where the magic is at its brightest, all violent swirls. “You got the short end of the bargain, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll have enough time to discover that for yourself.”

With that, O’Dimm throws his hands up, and the magic explodes.

Geralt hits the wall and all breath escapes his lungs. Nothing breaks, and when he manages to blink open his eyes, the crypt is still somehow standing. Geralt fights to draw in a breath and find his sword, but when he finally gets his limbs to cooperate, a boot steps on his wrist and nails it in place.

Geralt looks up, and O’Dimm smiles down at him. His eyes are still windows to hell, but his human guise is knitting itself back together.

“You have the loyalty of unbelievably unlikely individuals, witcher.”

Geralt’s lungs are burning and inside his chest is something that thrashes wildly, pleading without words.

“This would have been worth it only to see you so unhinged,” O’Dimm muses. His boot weighs a ton, and Geralt can’t yank his arm free. “My work here is done. Pray that we never meet again, Geralt.”

The next second, Gaunter O’Dimm is gone, and Geralt is on his feet with sword in hand before he registers he is alone.

No, not alone. 

_ Gods, Regis. _

The candlelight blurs into streaks of orange and yellow; Geralt almost trips over the stairs that lead to where Regis is lying, and then he falls to his knees.

Regis is face-down, his hair in disarray, and Geralt realizes his own eyes are wet. His lungs draw in a massive gasp of relief when he sees Regis is breathing. Geralt extends a shaking hand and when he touches Regis he almost breaks down. He has to take several deep breaths and blink away the tears he refuses to acknowledge before he is able to gather Regis close, careful and slow.

Regis appears to be unconscious, but he is definitely breathing, and Geralt’s breath takes the liberty of hitching and coming out almost like a relieved sob. Geralt buries his face into Regis’ hair for a few seconds, just to ascertain that his friend is not dead, and then he feels it.

The heartbeat.

Geralt’s own heart beats slower than humans’ do, by a fourth, and whenever he and Regis are in close proximity, he has been in the habit of focusing on the vampire’s heart, just out of curiosity. Regis’ heart is slow and resonant, a comforting thrum. Was.

Geralt freezes, listening and trying to believe what he feels against his fingertips that cradle Regis’ neck. The heartbeat is there, but it’s not the same as it was. It’s slow, but not vampire slow: human slow.

Geralt distantly feels how his lungs wheeze, and he forces himself to stop panicking. There is a sensible explanation to why Regis’ heart has apparently decided to start mimicking that of a human. Geralt holds Regis very carefully and watches him, and even as his brain tries to refute the evidence, he knows something is completely different.

Regis’ skin, usually a shade or two paler than Geralt’s own, is flushed, with color lingering on his familiar high cheekbones. Geralt stares at the redness for several seconds, and then he very slowly reaches for Regis’ fingers. He doesn’t dare to look, but his own hands start to shake again.

There are no sharp claws. Just blunt human nails, attached to a hand that is cold and clammy. Geralt looks at what he has just felt, and his stomach makes an unhealthy swoop; he has not been feeling imaginary things. Regis’ hands look like those of a human.

As a last resort, Geralt presses his thumb to Regis’ lip and pushes it up. He doesn’t think about anything just then but he hopes, against all hope, that the familiar fangs will greet him.

Geralt’s head swims. The candlelight around him gets blurry as he fights against the shock.

The fangs are gone, replaced by normal human teeth.

***

_ He floats in a haze for a long time. His body is distant but it aches. There is a dull throb that is hard to locate, coming and going. _

_ Every now and then he hears voices, two males and a female. He can’t make out the words, but one of the male voices is always agitated, while the second one has a pleasant note to it. The female voice is quiet and soothing, sometimes speaking to him when there is no one else present. _

_ The agitated male voice also talks to him when they are alone. It’s impossible to make out words through the fog he is in, but the voice sounds sad. It makes him want to wake up and comfort the speaker, because for some reason he feels familiar and safe, and he shouldn’t be sad. _

When the fog finally lifts, Regis spends a long time lying still. His body feels...weird. He tries to grope for memories, but his head refuses to lose the hazy sensation of being two steps removed from reality. He is tucked into a comfortable bed that smells of fresh linens, and there must be a window open in the room he is in, because every now and then a gust of fresh, cool air touches his face. It feels nice.

He makes a soft noise, and suddenly there is movement to his left. Someone jolts upright and a chair topples over, and only then does Regis realize he has eyes and that his eyelids are currently covering them. He opens his eyes, and after a few confused seconds his brain connects the dots; he must be in Corvo Bianco. He recognizes the paneling on the walls, even in the dark.

“Regis.” The male voice he likes so much is there, to his left, and it breaks on the last syllable.

Regis turns his head. The room is dark, but in the moonlight he sees Geralt kneeling by the bed. The witcher looks like he hasn’t slept for days, with dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair is in a haphazard ponytail, and there is an _ approaching breaking point _ kind of tension written all over him.

“Can you hear me?” Geralt asks. His hand hovers, like he wants to reach out and touch, but doesn’t dare.

“Yes,” Regis murmurs. He blinks a few times, but the room stays very dark. It throws him off balance; it’s disconcerting, not being able to see. There must be something wrong with his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt never moves away, and without thinking, Regis reaches for the hand that is still stuck mid-air. There is no conscious thought linked to winding his fingers together with Geralt’s, Regis just needs something solid to hang onto. Geralt draws in a breath when they touch, but then doesn’t say anything.

“It feels weird,” Regis says. “There is something wrong with my eyes. I can’t see in the dark.”

“Oh. Right.” Geralt gives his fingers a squeeze, and then he is moving away. Regis, still not really thinking about it, tries to hang on.

Geralt stills and gives him an odd smile. “I’ll light a candle. Not going anywhere.”

Regis feels like his brain wakes up a bit at that. He lets go of Geralt’s hand, and watches as he gets on his feet. There is the sound of a drawer opening, and then a familiar flick of fingers; the flame is small and bright, and in its glow Geralt’s tapetum lucidum flashes comfortingly. He carefully puts the candle on the nightstand and then, after some hesitation, sits on the bed. His bed, Regis suddenly understands. He is in Geralt’s own bed.

Before he can process the thought, Geralt brushes his hand against Regis’ fingers. It is warm and rough against the clammy skin.

“How do you feel? Does anything hurt?”

There is a weird note in his voice. Worry lurks just beneath the surface, and Regis wants to drive that away.

“My body is aching,” Regis says slowly. “Not any place specifically, just…”

And then he feels it. Or, more precisely, doesn’t feel it. The constant, jarring, blistering need is gone. Geralt is sitting very close, touching him, and there is no blackness lifting its head in the murk of Regis’ mind. He blinks rapidly as he starts to take stock of his body. He aches, but nothing hurts, per se, and his heart—

Regis’ fingers fly to his neck as he scrambles into a sitting position, and he feels how his mouth falls open. Geralt reaches out and says something, but Regis can’t understand it over the sudden hammering of his heart and the wheezing of his lungs speeding up. His pulse is fast, faster than ever, and it thunders in his ears as he tries to understand. His head is dizzy again, but this time it’s not pleasant; the room swims and the bed feels like it will fall away.

“Hey! Hey, Regis!” Geralt’s voice penetrates the panic, and Regis fixes his eyes to his. He feels how his lungs gasp for air, too much air—

There is a hand cupping his face and another pressing against his abdomen.

“Breathe out,” Geralt says, gentler now that he has Regis’ attention. “Then breathe in when I stop pushing.” His hand is very gentle where it touches Regis, applying just enough pressure to guide him back down from the sudden, inexplicably violent rush of dread.

He breathes as Geralt guides him, and the room slows down and gradually settles again. His heartbeat calms down, but it never gets back to what he has grown used to. Regis counts the beats as he breathes, and he watches Geralt all that time.

Geralt looks exhausted, but there is a fiercely focused expression on his face. The hand that cups Regis’ face is warm, the thumb brushing his cheek idly. When the worst of the panic finally releases its grip, Regis reaches for Geralt’s hand again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

Geralt snorts. A tired, fond smile climbs to his face. “How about you take it slow?” He reaches for the glass of water sitting on top of the nightstand and hands it to Regis. Regis is reluctant to let go of Geralt’s hand, but his throat is raw and dry after the fit. As he drinks, he tries to search for the ever-present craving for blood again, but there is absolutely nothing. It has been wiped clean, and without the weight of it Regis feels strangely loose and untethered.

Geralt keeps looking at him as he drinks, and right then his teeth clink against the rim of the glass and something else registers. His teeth.

Geralt is quick to pick the glass from Regis’ hands. He puts it aside and then he’s back, touching Regis’ face.

“Calm down. You’re safe.”

“My teeth,” Regis says, voice barely there. He runs his tongue over them, over and over again, but they’re flat and he doesn’t cut himself even once. His gaze falls, and then he is looking at his hands, fisted into the sheets and—

“O’Dimm changed you,” Geralt says before Regis can start hyperventilating all over again. Regis looks up, mouth hanging open, and the witcher grimaces when he sees how close to panic Regis is. His hand brushes the terror-sweat soaked hair away from Regis face. “I found you just when he—I was too late.”

It takes a while, but Regis understands Geralt is feeling guilty. Then it slams into him; Geralt thinks he is to blame, somehow, when nothing could be further from the truth.

“No,” Regis says. He grips Geralt’s wrist, and the witcher looks at him. He is so pained by what he thinks came to pass, Regis sees, and the need to soothe that hurt presses down on him. This Regis can make better, if nothing else. He has to.

“It’s not your fault,” Regis whispers. Memories of what happened at the crypt are trickling back now, but they get hazy at a certain point.

Geralt sighs. “I was too late to stop him. I’m so sorry.”

“No, listen,” Regis says. He knows he is squeezing Geralt’s wrist hard, but the witcher doesn’t even seem to notice. He files the observation away. “This was my fault.”

Geralt opens his mouth, but then he frowns. “How did O’Dimm even find you? I thought you can’t track higher vampires by any kind of magic.”

Regis bites his lip. It’s a new gesture, and he doesn’t know how he thinks of doing it. That thought, too, is banished.

“I… I think I called him to me.” Geralt’s eyes grow enormous, and Regis rushes to explain. “Not intentionally, but somehow he knew where to find me.”

“Why? How?” The witcher is worried again, and without thinking, Regis mirrors their pose and cups his cheek. Geralt flinches when he feels the fingers brush his cheek, and Regis quickly withdraws his hand.

“After Tesham Mutna, my addiction started to get out of control again,” Regis says very quietly. The shame is still there, he notices. The burn for blood is gone, but he still carries the blame. Some things appear to be enduring beyond physical form.

“I knew something was wrong,” Geralt says. His hand leaves, and Regis finds he misses the warmth. He looks down, and shame makes his cheeks grow hot. That’s new, too. Everything has changed.

“I knew you were hiding something.”

“I’m sorry,” Regis whispers in turn. Words don’t want to come, because his throat is growing tight. “I tried to control it, but I was going to slip sooner or later. So when O’Dimm found me, he offered to take the need for blood away.” He has to swallow, because something enormous is hovering over him. His hands are shaking.

Very slowly, Geralt’s fingers reach for his chin and push it up, forcing them to lock eyes again. Regis blinks. He was so afraid of losing Geralt he didn’t stop to think that maybe this unexpected road would take him there, too.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asks. He is torn between being angry and something Regis can’t name just then.

“Because I would have ended up hurting you, before long.” Regis sees right away that Geralt is going to argue, and he presses on. “You don’t understand the addiction, Geralt. It’s always there, it never goes away, and it was becoming too much to control.”

“You didn’t need to go to O’Dimm and ask to be turned into a human!” Geralt exclaims, and both of them freeze.

Regis knew, deep inside, that he was fundamentally changed. Geralt saying it aloud shouldn’t change anything, but it does. It brings the truth out, drags it into the small circle of candlelight for both of them to observe.

_ Maybe he doesn’t care about me now that I’m human. _

The thought comes and goes, but it makes Regis shrink back. He sits up on the bed properly and crosses his legs. Geralt is still stuck on what he said and Regis can’t bear to look at him just then.

“I didn’t tell you, because you would have wanted to help. I tried to keep my distance and push you back a bit, but it’s...not in your style to leave a friend in need.” Regis feels a vague pain inside his chest. “I was going to snap. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you.”

“You don’t trust me,” Geralt says in a defeated voice, and Regis makes a distressed sound at that. Nothing could be further from the truth. He has to make Geralt see as much.

“Geralt.” His voice must reveal how close to tears Regis is because Geralt looks at him sharply. “I trust you with my life. It is myself I can’t trust.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Regis forces himself to hold the eye contact, but his chest is hurting so much. Is being human going to be this painful all the time?

Then, to his surprise and utter relief, Geralt gives him a small, sad smile. “You said that once before, but now it might mean something different.”

Regis bites his lip as he nods, and Geralt huffs a laugh. When Regis looks at him in question, the witcher shrugs. “You never used to bite your lip before. It’s...new.”

Regis can’t decipher whether it’s a good new or a bad new, but Geralt gets to his feet before he can make up his mind.

“You should get some sleep.”

“Where will you sleep?” Regis blurts out. Geralt snorts at his alarm and nods his head at the direction of upstairs.

“Guest bedroom. Marlene made me a bed there when I brought you in, so I might as well use it now.”

Geralt bids him goodnight with a smile, and Regis lies back down. The knowledge that he is lying in Geralt’s bed sits heavy inside his mind. He stares at the candle, notes how the light flickers in the breeze coming in through the open window. He can’t bear to put it out, because the darkness feels too raw and new. Regis wants to see.

Unprompted, he thinks of Dettlaff. Regis knows their bond is gone. It was never an intrusive thing, just a connection nesting at the back of his consciousness, and now there is only silence inside his head. Well, not silence, his thoughts are extremely loud, but the link to his brother is gone. Everything is oddly light without the rankle of addiction, but it is tied together with how lonely the world feels.

It makes him curl up under the duvet, seeking to build a cocoon of warmth around himself. He _ misses _Dettlaff. He has been missing Dettlaff for a long time now, already before this latest debacle; the events that summoned Geralt to Beauclair are well over a year in the past, and all that time Regis has been feeling like he is missing a limb. He didn’t imagine it could get worse, but it did. The bond has been ripped out, and he is alone inside his head.

It takes him a long time to drift off again.


	3. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) . <3
> 
> Illustrations by [Kiko](https://twitter.com/ConAffettoKiko). <3

** **

**Mirror**

/ˈmɪrə/

_ Noun; a surface, typically of glass coated with a metal amalgam, which reflects a clear image. _

_ Verb; (of a surface) show a reflection of. _

Waking comes slower. Regis spends a long time floating in a sort of half-asleep state he isn’t used to. When he was still himself, sleep had clear boundaries that didn’t blur with being awake. It’s not unpleasant to discover humans sleep differently, but it’s one more thing he has to get used to.

When Regis finally pries his eyes open, the room is full of morning sunlight. Through the open window he can hear the sounds of the estate waking up, people walking by, and dogs barking. It’s so much less ambient noise than before. Regis strains his ears; he can’t even make out the words of the two women who pass under his window. He hears their laughter as it bounces off the walls, bright as pearls.

He sits up and his eyes land on the chair. Someone has been in the room while he slept; the chair has been pushed back against the wall, and there are clothes laid out on it. Regis looks at himself and sees he is only wearing a thin shirt and smallclothes. His old garb is nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was damaged beyond repair.

There is a knot of nervous energy sitting inside his stomach as he dresses in the simple dark trousers and linen shirt. They are not exactly his size, it turns out, but Regis decides to live with them for now.

He has to stop at the door. His heart is beating too fast again, and this time it’s because he is getting anxious. Everything has been turned upside down, and the more he thinks about it, the less Regis knows what on earth he will do next.

He can’t live in the crypt any longer. It’s not a place a human can habit, and not only because of the archespores, kikimores, and wraiths. His body has been changed into something he is familiar with only through second-hand experience. He needs to feed himself, bathe, and ensure he doesn’t fall sick; all manner of things which have now become mandatory.

His stomach interrupts him by making an unattractive gurgling sound, and Regis knows the unpleasant feeling must be hunger. Not for blood; it’s not as urgent, just an awareness that he is short on energy. He decides to address this problem first.

Drawing in a deep breath, Regis opens the bedroom door. The familiar foyer is bathed in morning sunlight, and there is no one to be seen. Regis steps through the doorway and looks around, listening intently. He can hear faint sounds coming from outside, but otherwise the house is quiet, surrounding him like a protective cocoon.

The kitchen door opens, and Regis turns his head. Marlene smiles at him when their eyes meet, and then she bustles over. There is the smell of fresh bread about her.

“Good morning, dear. You must be hungry.” There is no alarm in her voice, and Regis finds himself giving her a careful smile.

“Good morning.” 

Marlene brushes her wrinkled, soft hand down Regis’ arm. “Come have breakfast. You have been through a lot.”

The kitchen is warm and familiar, and Regis takes a seat at the table when Marlene gives him a stern nod. His bare feet feel the cool stone floor, and he flexes his toes as he watches Marlene take the coffee pan from where it has been sitting and pour him a cup. Bread, grapes, and cheese also appear before him, and Regis starts to eat without a word. 

Marlene sits down, too, and then watches him in silence for a while. Her gaze doesn’t make Regis uncomfortable, because there is understanding in it. He guesses Geralt must have told his wight-turned-cook what happened. Marlene knew Regis wasn’t human, even before all this.

“The man of mirrors found you, in the end,” Marlene says when Regis finishes eating and takes a sip of coffee.

Regis looks at her over his cup, feeling wary. Marlene is smiling, but her eyes are melancholy.

“I spent so many years under his spell that I’m familiar with his handiwork, so to say.”

“I wasn’t cursed,” Regis says. Marlene nods and shrugs.

“Being a human is not a curse, no.”

Regis looks down into his coffee. The hunger is gone now, but it only means the myriad of troubles that face him are that much more urgent to address.

“I have never seen Geralt like that,” Marlene says and draws Regis out from the gloom of his thoughts. He cocks his head in question, and Marlene gives him a fond smile.

“He came back with you yesterday, before sunrise, looking like death warmed over,” Marlene recounts in her slow, soothing voice. Regis begins to feel nauseous, and wonders whether he ate too much.

“Mister Foulty brought in a healer, but you were not injured. You were just in very deep sleep. Geralt refused to leave you alone, even when he was assured there was most likely nothing wrong with you.” Marlene sighs. “Well, apart from the obvious, but you know what I mean.”

Regis nods, mute. Marlene arranges her skirts and crosses her fingers. There are these traces of the noble lady she used to be still sparkling through the exterior of the quiet old woman she is now.

“He was so worried, poor dear,” Marlene adds, almost as an afterthought, and Regis doesn’t have to ask whom she refers to.

As if on cue, the kitchen door flies open.

“Marlene, have you seen—” Geralt asks in a tight voice, eyes scanning the room and then coming to an abrupt stop when Regis stands up. The witcher exhales in relief.

“Fuck, sorry,” Geralt says. Marlene gives him an unimpressed glare.

“Impolite, to leave your guest alone like that,” she says. She stands up, pours a second cup of coffee, and then hands it to Geralt. The witcher accepts the cup, but he is still staring at Regis who is starting to feel very awkward under the scrutiny.

Geralt finally blinks and then looks at the coffee like he can’t understand where the cup appeared from. Regis crosses his arms. Marlene sniffs delicately.

“How about you two go and sit down?” she suggests. Geralt blinks frantically and then he looks at Regis again. The odd expression on his face is still in place.

“Come on.”

Regis follows Geralt to a room the witcher calls his study. Regis usually refers to it as a “mess,” because the walls are lined with bookshelves so full of books and maps they are constantly in danger of overflowing. There is a desk and a chair, but Geralt sits on the decrepit chaise longue and pats the cushion. Regis sits down, wishing he had taken his own coffee with him so he would have something to do with his hands. The need to _ fidget _is new, and it’s not pleasant.

“Sorry,” Geralt says again. He heaves a massive sigh. “I had to step out to help at the stables, and then I came back and you were gone.” He takes a sip of coffee, looking embarrassed.

Regis smiles. Geralt visibly relaxes when he sees it, and his answering smile makes warmth spread inside Regis’ chest.

They sit in silence. The moment of peace passes as Regis starts to worry about the future again. There are nothing but question marks ahead, and it’s such a massive tangle he has no clue where to begin sorting it all out. And Geralt keeps looking at him with that odd expression, like there is something wrong with his face.

“Sorry,” the witcher says for the third time when he notices Regis is looking at him in question. “You look a bit...different.”

“I do?” Regis asks. He has not thought about his appearance at all, because everything _ feels _different, and that has been overwhelming enough.

Geralt nods, and then he smiles again. “Don’t look so worried. It’s not bad.”

Regis rolls his eyes. “I can hardly compare to anything, Geralt. I don’t have a reflection.” 

As the words leave his mouth, Regis realizes that it’s not true anymore, most likely. He blinks as he tries to wrap his head around yet another new thing, but the vast majority of his brain is preoccupied with the slow, bright smile spreading on Geralt’s face. It makes his eyes crinkle.

“Have you ever seen what you look like?” Geralt asks. He puts the coffee cup away and leans forward. He looks so excited, all of a sudden.

Regis shakes his head. “Not really. Dettlaff drew a portrait of me once, but that’s it.” He ignores the pain that tries to rise up at the mention of his brother. Former brother.

Geralt stands up and reaches for Regis’ hand. It’s so easy to let the witcher pull him to his feet and then lead them back to the foyer. Geralt is still smiling when he turns around next to the main door.

“Wanna see?” he asks. He is still holding Regis’ hand, and this close Regis can smell him; it is a familiar scent, and it makes his shoulders drop where they have hunched.

Regis manages a nod and Geralt turns him around, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Regis hardly feels them, because there is a full-body mirror hanging on the wall, and for the first time Regis can see his own reflection.

The first thing he sees are his eyes, wide and black. He spends a long time looking at them, not daring to move his gaze for some reason.

Curiosity gets the better of him eventually, and Regis draws in a deep breath as he lets his gaze slip upwards. His hair is dark, and it’s an odd thing; he is almost certain it used to have much more grey in it. Now it is black, a color he associates with himself when he was much, much younger. There is a hint of grey at his temples, and without thinking Regis lifts his fingers to touch it.

He hears Geralt chuckle, close to his ear. “You look younger than you used to. That’s what I was staring at.”

Regis looks again, taking in his whole face, trying to adjust the inaccurate mental self-portrait to what is suddenly reality. His cheekbones are high, his nose has the bump he has always been able to feel with his fingers, and his lips are thin with a slight downward slant. There is a shadow of a stubble coming in, and his fingers track that too, trying to understand the texture. If he was pressed to guess, he would place himself around the age of forty.

His shoulders are narrower than he thought. _ Slender _ is the word that comes to his mind as he looks at his body. The clothes don’t fit him very well and they emphasize what he feels very keenly just then: he won’t be of any use whatsoever in a fight.

It is then that Regis’ gaze finally includes Geralt, who is still holding him by his shoulders. The witcher frames him, and Regis can feel the warmth of his body against his back. The contrast between them is enormous. Regis has never before paid much attention to their height difference, but now it is glaring. Geralt’s shoulders are wide, and even in his white shirt and casual trousers he looks capable and unyielding. For the first time, Regis knows without a doubt why so many people choose to trust him.

Geralt smiles at him when their eyes meet, but Regis’ chest is growing tight and that odd, vague pain from last night is back when he finally dares to acknowledge what he knows without a doubt: he is useless. He can’t protect Geralt anymore. He did his best to keep Geralt safe, and in the process made himself obsolete.

Geralt must notice his distress, because he turns Regis around. The ease with which the witcher moves him doesn’t escape Regis’ notice.

“Hey,” Geralt murmurs. His hands are still holding Regis by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Regis tries to draw in a breath, but it gets caught halfway. The feeling crests, and at its heels follows a rush of chaotic feelings: the world is so much closer to him now in the light of the day, and he feels so fucking useless, with no direction and nothing to his name but a stack of books in a cemetery he can’t reach by himself. He has lost the bond with Dettlaff, and he is so, so afraid of losing Geralt, too.

Geralt hugs him, then. His arms are tight and the smell of safety surrounds Regis, but it’s too much. Regis’ chest starts to heave, and to his horror he realizes he is crying. It’s not anything he can hide, either: his lungs draw in huge gulps of air and he feels like he is drowning. His eyes burn and the amount of tears he is capable of shedding seems absurd. They soak through Geralt’s shirt where Regis tries to hide away. He is vaguely aware of hanging onto Geralt, of the strong arms around him, and of a hand stroking his hair.

It goes on for a ridiculously long time, but slowly the worst of the dread fades and the tears stop coming. His breathing evens out, and as Regis fights back his self-control he becomes more and more aware of Geralt holding him. Regis is afraid to pull away and look at Geralt after falling apart like that, but he has to. It will be the first step on what he now suspects is a very long road towards an unknown destination.

Geralt doesn’t let him go. Finally Regis cranes his head up, trying to ignore how hot his neck is feeling, how he must be blushing, but Geralt’s expression freezes him. There is no judgement; just worry and something sad and warm. Regis feels his cheeks grow even hotter. His head is dizzy again, but not because of the crying.

“Sorry, I got carried away. Should let you adjust,” Geralt says quietly. His arms are around Regis’ waist, and he is so _ warm_. 

“No, it’s not your fault,” Regis blurts out when his mouth finally remembers how words work. His tongue feels clumsy. “I’m just worried, and everything feels so new. It’s overwhelming.” He tries to focus on what he is saying, but his body is burning up with a need to lean closer again, and if he ever thought humans didn’t experience things intensely, he was so, so badly mistaken.

“Worried?” Geralt asks. He frowns, eyebrows knitting together. The expression makes the scar over his left eye scrunch up.

Regis swallows. His face feels like it’s on _ fire_. A vague worry chimes up, what if Geralt can see what he is thinking, can guess how much Regis likes being held close like this?

“About—well, everything, really,” Regis forces out. “I have nowhere to go, and before I can set up a clinic—”

“Hey, hey, hold up,” Geralt interrupts him with an incredulous laugh. He finally releases Regis, but as he steps back he grasps Regis by the arm. “I thought it went without saying that you can stay here.” The witcher looks at him like he is only happy to have one worry he is able to address right away, but Regis’ throat is suddenly tight again.

He had just enough time to hope. Geralt instantly confirming he has a place for Regis drags the blighted feelings to the forefront again.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “You’re overthinking this. Glad to see one thing is like it used to be.” He gestures towards the stairs. “The spare bedroom is free. It’s yours.”

“I—” Regis begins, but then he doesn’t know what to say. It feels like too much, to be taken in. Does Geralt not realize Regis will need things, now?

Geralt, proving his knack for guessing uncomfortable truths when it suits his agenda, laughs some more and gives his arm a squeeze. “It’s no trouble. You can’t go back to the damn crypt, and I have all this space here, sitting empty. If anything, you’re doing me a favor by actually using it, and Marlene will be happy to fuss over someone else besides me.”

Regis is quiet for a long time, trying to hide how undone he is, but apparently his human body is dead set on letting everything spill out; his cheeks are still feeling too hot, and controlling what his face shows is impossible.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he finally says. His voice is faint, and when he finally drags his gaze up, Geralt is smiling. It’s softer.

“We’ll solve this mess,” he says.

Regis blinks and instantly forgets his embarrassment, because there is something that is decidedly not right with Geralt’s words. For a second he doesn’t understand why he is so alarmed, but then it clicks.

“I’m not cursed. There isn’t anything to solve.”

Geralt takes half a step back. The smile falls away, but the worried frown stays in place.

“But—” he begins, and Regis can see he is gearing up for a whole new argument.

“No,” Regis says, flat. He crosses his arms, even when he knows what the gesture looks like; defensive and vulnerable, at the same time. “I asked for this. I didn’t know the specifics, true, but this was my choice. You are _ not _to go and seek out O’Dimm again.” His voice finally attains a thread of steel.

“But you’re not yourself,” Geralt groans, clearly before he has a chance to think about his words, and Regis forgets to blink. There is a long, ringing silence. Outside, a man shouts something unintelligible, and a woman’s voice answers him.

“I’m still _ me_,” Regis says. He thanks every deity he can think of when it doesn’t come out as a question, because fuck everything else; he is still himself, at his core. He has all his memories and those of his skills that don’t require inhuman strength or supernatural abilities. He knows who he is. After he has had time to pick up the pieces, there will be some kind of a person behind the name _ Regis _again.

“But you need help, you can’t stay like this,” Geralt says. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, as if trying to indicate Regis as a whole.

The first rush of anger feels foreign, but it’s _ good _after being on the verge of breaking into tiny pieces all morning. Regis tracks the hot, acrid feeling as it flows down his body, and he is vaguely aware of his arms uncoiling and hands forming fists at his side.

“_I chose this,_” Regis repeats. His throat is tight and his neck is hot again, but it’s different, it’s not the feeling from a moment before. It's not even close to how he remembers anger feeling. Before all this it was cold and vicious, and now his heart is beating fast and his skin feels too tight to contain his fragile self.

“I did this to remove the thing that was going to destroy everything I hold dear. There was no choice, _ none_, can’t you see that?” The words are clipped and they burn as they go, his volume threatening to climb.

Geralt is frozen in place. His pupils have formed tiny slits but his body is poised as if for an attack. With a jolt, Regis understands that Geralt has never seen him angry like this; Geralt’s gut still reacts to Regis like he is capable of doing damage.

Geralt catches up to the fact only a second later than Regis. He closes his mouth and unthaws, eyes flicking over Regis’ hunched, flushed body and visibly reminding himself that Regis is no longer a threat in any possible way. It feels like a slap to his face.

The tension breaks when Geralt suddenly turns heel and leaves the room. He is gone before Regis can fully understand what just happened. When he does, he is glad there is a chair to sink into. His knees go liquid and he has to bury his face into his hands to calm down.

***

A knock at the door draws him back to the surface of his thoughts. His brain has been in an unpleasant place all day, and the distraction feels welcome. Regis gets to his feet and walks to the door of the guest bedroom. Opening it reveals Barnabas-Basil Foulty, with a heavy crease of worry embedded into his forehead. 

“Pardon me, master,” he says with a polite incline of his head. “I know you’re still recovering, but might I trouble you for a spell?”

Regis smiles. “Absolutely. What can I help you with?”

Barnabas-Basil sighs. “One of our workers has children. The oldest one of them is sick, and I remember master Geralt mentioning on several occasions you are a practitioner of medicine.”

“I’d be glad to help,” Regis says. “Do you have any medical supplies on hand?”

Barnabas-Basil nods and Regis follows him down the stairs, out of the main building, and all the way to the cluster of houses that serves as the homes of most of the servants and some of the workers. He has been there before, but only now does Regis notice how meticulously everything is maintained. The main building was renovated recently, but he realizes this bit has been overhauled before it. It makes him smile, despite everything.

A woman greets them at the door of a yellow house. It’s a narrow building, but inside it’s neat and lived-in. The first floor is cozy; it’s something between a kitchen and a living room. There are two young boys playing near the backdoor, and toys are scattered around them.

“I’m Sonja. Thank you so much for coming,” the woman says with a nervous curtsy. She has strawberry blonde hair, and freckles adorn every spot of her skin.

“My name is Regis. Mister Foulty said your child is sick.” Regis smiles with pursed lips, and then remembers he doesn’t have to hide his fangs anymore. The woman sighs and nods, but most of the nerves vanish when she sees Regis won’t insist on etiquette.

“Rosie’s fourteen. She’s sick with fever, been for a few days already.” Her eyes are blue and worried. “She says it just started out of nowhere.”

“May I see her?” Regis asks. The woman nods and leads him up the stairs to the attic floor, which is clearly the domain of the eldest child. It’s a small room, but furnished with bright colors. A bed is pushed against the far wall, and a pair of hazy eyes meets Regis’.

“Mum?” the girl, Rosie, asks. Her voice is hoarse, and bright red spots burn on her cheeks.

“This is Regis,” her mother says. “He is a doctor.”

Rosie’s eyes flick to Regis. She blinks and then sits up. She is small for her age and has inherited her mother’s eyes and hair. Regis crouches by the bed, giving her time to voice her protests.

“Hello, Rosie,” he says. “My name is Regis. May I take a look?”

Rosie looks at him. She appears surprised by the space she is afforded, but Regis has treated enough women and children during the war to know the trauma the weakest of the society suffer; it’s impossible to tell who will lash out or freeze when touched.

Rosie nods, and Regis begins his inspection. The girl is burning up, and she shies away from his touch like those sick with fever often do, as if the skin itself is more susceptible to pain. Regis finds nothing; he peers into her throat, checks her ears, and feels puzzled. Fever is usually a symptom of something. Everything about Rosie says she has an infection of some sort, but Regis can’t find anything obvious.

“Pardon me,” the mother says suddenly. “I have to go see how my young ones are doing. I will be right back.”

She leaves, and Regis notices how Rosie’s eyes follow her; there’s a wary, conflicted expression on her young face. It’s almost guilty. Regis decides to take a guess.

“Is there something you’d like to say now that your mother is not here?”

Rosie flinches away from him, eyes wide. Regis sits at the edge of her bed, and keeps his hands still where they lay in his lap. He waits, and when Rosie dares to believe Regis is not judging, she slumps.

“I was climbing. And I fell.” Her voice is miserable.

“Let me guess, your mother has forbidden climbing?” Regis asks with a gentle smile.

Rosie huffs, and there is such an insulted air about her that Regis chuckles. “I’m the best at climbing roofs,” she explains. “But I slipped, and I scraped my leg on a nail.”

“Show me?” Regis asks, and now Rosie obeys with no hesitation. She kicks back the covers and pulls the hem of her nightshirt up. Regis knows right away he has found the source of her fever; there is a long, ugly scrape down the side of her knee. It’s swollen and red, and pus seeps out.

“That looks very painful,” he says. “I’d like to clean it, and then give you some medicine.”

“Alright.” Rosie chews her lip. 

Regis goes back downstairs to wash his hands. Sonja looks up from where she is trying to persuade a cranky toddler into a clean shirt.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Regis nods. “I think I know what is wrong with her. If you'll let me do a small procedure, I can make sure she gets better.”

“Of course. Is there anything you need?”

“Do you have access to penicillium?” Regis asks as he scrubs his hands. Barnabas-Basil has left, but there is a basket full of medical supplies, and Regis spies bandages and clear alcohol.

“I can ask the majordomo to purchase some.” The mother sighs. “I have a hunch what’s wrong with her, but she just screamed at me when I tried to help her.”

“Puberty?” Regis asks as he gathers what he needs.

“Aye,” the mother says with a faint laugh. “We used to get along so well, and now every little thing makes her throw the worst tantrums. I was exactly like that when I was her age.”

“It will pass,” Regis says. “Give her time.”

An hour later the wound is cleaned and bandaged, and Regis has been provided with a few ampules of penicillium. He gives Rosie a shot and tells her he will come back the next day. She nods and pesters him into telling her how to clean and change the bandages by herself.

When Regis finally leaves, the sun is in the western sky, and Barnabas-Basil is waiting for him. The majordomo gives him a relieved smile.

“Thank you,” he says as they start walking back to the villa. “Sonja, Rosie’s mother, is our seamstress. She is invaluable.”

“The estate has its own seamstress?” Regis asks.

“Yes. We strive to be self-sufficient on most accounts,” Barnabas-Basil says with a hint of pride in his voice. “She sews clothes and linens for everyone, and in return the estate provides her and her family with what they need.”

“That is very practical.” Regis looks around as they walk, and it strikes him how none of the workers have the harried, hollow look that is so common among the lower social classes. It’s harvest time, so they are tired, sure, but all of them look more or less healthy. There isn’t a single malnourished child or adult in sight.

“Do the children go to school?” he asks when the thought occurs to him.

Barnabas-Basil purses his lips. “Most of them do not. There is a traveling scholar who comes by a few times a month, and most of the older children know how to read. But we have no teacher in our employ.”

Regis hums, and as they settle down to have lunch in the kitchen, he senses the majordomo looking at him like he is trying to formulate a question he isn’t sure is polite to ask. Regis gives him space because he is hungry. Besides, he knows Barnabas-Basil appreciates it when he is allowed to do things his own way.

“Master Regis,” he finally says when they have eaten. Regis looks at him, and the majordomo carefully folds away his napkin.

“Are you going to be staying with us from now on? I...know you were not a human, but that appears to have changed, and I don’t know what your living situation is at the moment.”

Regis opens his mouth, but he has no idea what to say. The idea of staying is so appealing, but the argument with Geralt clouds everything, and his stomach grows tight. What if the witcher wants Regis to leave when he gets back on his feet?

“I wouldn’t normally ask,” Barnabas-Basil says in an apologetic voice, “but the doctor of the estate passed away last spring, and with the amount of people we employ, having a physician on hand is invaluable. We can’t offer anything elaborate here, but it’s an honest living, and you have the added benefit of being trusted by master Geralt.”

“I see,” Regis says quietly.

His chest hurts. It appears to be a pain that is linked to mental distress, because otherwise his human body seems to be alright. Regis feels the uncertainty and sadness press down on him.

“Take your time to consider this matter, master,” the majordomo says when it becomes apparent Regis doesn’t have an answer to give. “For now you need time to recuperate. Do you have any possessions that need to be relocated to the villa?”

Regis thinks about his crypt. The still will keep, unless the kikimores decide to invade the space when he’s gone, but the thought barely elicits a ripple of worry. His books are the only thing he would truly miss.

“I have to talk with Geralt about that,” Regis says, proud when his voice doesn’t tremble on the name. “My previous—home is not a place I can reach like this.”

“Very well,” Barnabas-Basil nods. He gives Regis a smile. “Just let me know if you require anything. I already took the liberty of asking Sonja to come by and take your measurements for clothing.”

“Oh?” Regis blurts out. He suddenly remembers he is still dressed in clothes that really do not fit him very well, walking around barefoot.

“It is no trouble,” the majordomo says when he guesses Regis is trying to find a way to argue. “You’re our guest, and the laws of hospitality are sacred in Toussaint.”

Regis purses his lips and nods. His throat is feeling tight and hot again. He isn’t at all certain whether he deserves all the kindness he is shown.

***

The rest of the day passes quietly. Regis takes some time to poke around the guest bedroom, finds a shaving kit, and then stares at his reflection in the smaller mirror for a long time. All the realities of being human are slowly dawning on him, and when he truly looks at himself, he has to admit he has probably looked better. His hair has always had the habit of curling, but only now does Regis truly see how stubborn it is. 

The stubble is something he needs to get rid of, he decides, but before he can pry open the shaving kit, Sonja knocks on the door. She tells Regis Rosie is sleeping peacefully, for the first time in three days. The next hour passes quietly as she takes his measurements and asks about preferences, all the while chatting about the daily life of the estate.

Regis is happy to let Sonja fill the silence with her mellow voice. She’s had a colorful life, not all of it bad, but it sounds like she is genuinely happy at Corvo Bianco; she speaks highly of Geralt, telling Regis how the witcher insists on taking part in the manual labor around the estate when he is at home. Sonja sounds astonished when she says they can speak directly to Geralt if they need something. Not having to go through a horde of cocky attendants to get things taken care of is apparently uncommon in these parts.

The estate is not rich, but it gets by. Geralt, with the help of Barnabas-Basil, takes care of his own.

After Sonja leaves it’s almost time for dinner, and Regis sits down on the bed. It’s unbelievably inconvenient how often a human body needs to be fed, on top of the realities of metabolism and general bodily functions. Regis knows he has to find the courage to ask about bathing at some point, but the trip to the outhouse was already unpleasant enough. He forbids himself from regretting his choice, but all this newness slamming into him at once is too much.

There is a creak from behind the door, and Regis starts; in the past, he would have been able to hear if anyone was climbing the stairs. Now someone is apparently standing right outside of the room, and if they had not stepped on the loose board he wouldn’t be any wiser.

“Can I come in?” Regis recognizes the voice right away. Relief and worry war inside of him as he stands up. He nods before he realizes he has to actually speak aloud.

“Yes.”

Geralt looks tired when he steps in. He closes the door behind himself and then just stands there, hands stuffed into his pockets. Regis meets his gaze, hovering beside the bed, and he wants to say something, anything.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. His gaze drops to the floor and he rubs his eyes. “I shouldn’t have—said what I said.”

“I forgive you.” Regis knows right away he does. There is no question about it. “You just want to help.”

Geralt shrugs. He looks miserable, and without thinking, Regis steps closer. He runs his hand down Geralt’s arm, and the witcher looks at him with golden eyes full of worry. Late afternoon sunlight makes him glow, the white hair creating a messy halo around his head. Regis takes him in and feels his heart pump faster again.

“I know I’m not what you’re used to,” Regis says quietly, crossing his arms when his cheeks start to feel hot again. “And I’m not going to be useful like I was, but—”

“_Useful_?” Geralt says, the word dropping like a ball of lead. His eyes are wide now, and his hands fly to grip Regis by the shoulders. “I don’t give a shit if you’re useful. You’re my _ friend_.”

“I can’t fight,” Regis says. He didn’t mean to bring this up, but it has been eating away at his resolve all day. Sure, he can practice medicine and there is a library packed away inside his head, but he is unable to protect his loved ones like he used to. In the past, Regis could throw himself between anything and Geralt, and trust he’d walk away from that. Now, not so much.

“What the fuck,” Geralt says a bit helplessly. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“You said—you implied you wanted me to go back to the way I was.” Regis is suddenly unsure of what they are talking about. 

“Because I thought you were suffering,” Geralt says slowly, like Regis needs small words to understand. “And sure, it will take me some time to get used to you being human, but I don’t give a shit about whether you’re useful or not, or whether you can fight, or—whatever.” Geralt swallows and looks vaguely embarrassed by his outburst.

Gradually the tension starts to leak out of Regis. His head refuses to believe everything, but it’s a start, right here; they’re trying to find their common ground again. He knows he has lost Dettlaff and their bond, but maybe he can salvage this. His hand wraps around Geralt’s wrist when he finally manages a small smile.

“Thank you.”

Geralt snorts. He doesn’t step back, and Regis’ body is once again doing that weird burning without flames, aching to step closer. He tries to push it away.

“Come have dinner with me?” the witcher asks. Regis drops the contact and nods, his smile growing.

“Gladly.”

Geralt looks him over and then he chuckles. It’s lighter than Regis expects. “I never really thought about just how skinny you are, before now.”

Regis tries to glare, but his cheeks are heating up under the gaze. “I never needed muscle power to fight, so pardon me.” He tries for a scathing tone, but it just comes out embarrassed.

Geralt laughs, not maliciously. “And you drowning in my old clothes really doesn’t help. I hope Sonja will get you something more comfortable to wear soon.”

It makes Regis pause. He looks down at the clothes, and when he finally drags his head back to the present moment, Geralt is watching him with a smile. It’s softer than the amused one. Regis can’t think of anything to say, but as they eat dinner and discuss the running of the estate, he rubs the hem of the shirt between his fingers.


	4. Mundane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean).
> 
> Illustration by [Kiko](https://twitter.com/ConAffettoKiko).
> 
> Much love to all four of you. <3

** **

**Mundane**

/mʌnˈdeɪn/

_ Adjective; of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one. _

Geralt keeps expecting things to go back to normal. It takes him two weeks to realize there was never a normal to go back to.

He is sitting on the patio, cradling a coffee cup, when it occurs to him. He blinks when he realizes he has been staring at Regis as he speaks with the smith. Geralt could make out the words if he tried, but it’s more interesting to just watch. Regis is clad in his new clothes, and because Sonja knows what she is doing, they fit him perfectly. The shirt is simple off-white linen, cut with clean lines so it is easy to tuck in, bunching at the waist where the dark green trousers hug his narrow hips.

Geralt notices Regis has rolled up the cuffs of his pants, just enough for his ankles to show, and something about it tugs at his heart; Regis was never bothered by heat or cold, but now he prefers the shade to the direct sun for quite another reason than before. He has a shadow, but he isn’t used to the late August heat.

Regis is smiling to the smith, clearly fighting back laughter. His smile is still the one with pursed lips, but Geralt knows with time that may change. There is so much Regis no longer has to hide. Geralt’s gut twinges with guilt every time he compares the present to the past; it’s not his friend’s fault Geralt has trouble adjusting. His head is stuck in limbo, because his first reaction to Regis is still that old _ supernatural being of immense power_, and then Regis looks at him and Geralt will give himself a mental kick because that’s no longer true.

The sound of laughter makes him almost drop the cup. Geralt’s breath gets caught in his throat, because Alpo the smith has apparently crossed the line from amusing to outrageous and made Regis laugh. And it’s not the quiet chuckle Geralt is so familiar with; this is a bright, uncontrolled laugh coming deep from his lungs, and when he watches, Regis tips his head back, hand halfway up to cover his mouth but not quite there and—

Geralt remembers to breathe only when the cup does fall from his slack fingers. Lukewarm coffee splashes over his bare feet, but he hardly notices. His gaze is already back at the pair across the yard, again deep in conversation. The smith is gesturing towards the stables, Regis is nodding, hands on his hips and head tilted in that way he has when he’s thinking about something. 

The conversation concludes abruptly, and when Regis turns he sees Geralt and smiles. He makes his way to where the witcher is sitting. He circles the railing surrounding the patio and frowns when he sees spilled coffee and the chipped cup.

“What happened?” he asks, gingerly stepping around the puddle and sitting down.

Geralt knows that in the past Regis would have heard him dropping the cup. Now? Not a chance.

“Spilled coffee on myself and dropped the cup,” he lies. It’s pitiful, but Regis just snorts. He leans back and stretches. Geralt knows Regis is an early riser, so he must have been out and about for hours already. It’s approaching noon, but since Geralt was out hunting a stubborn wraith until the early hours he doesn’t feel bad about being lazy.

“What have you been up to?” Geralt asks. He knows the people he employs know who Regis is, but during the past fortnight the former vampire has slowly made his way through the estate and gotten acquainted with them again. 

There is a general consensus that a witcher as a master of the house means unusual guests, and no one is to be alarmed if the witcher himself isn’t. The whispers about Regis, until he changed, were of the general opinion that the barber-surgeon was a mystery if there ever was any. Polite but aloof, always coming and going without anyone noticing.

Now the talk is changing. The curiosity about Regis suddenly staying at the villa died down quickly, but people are still dying to know more about him. The difference is that now they don’t have to content themselves with gossip, because Regis is taking an active role in trying to figure out where he fits in the world. He is acting as the resident physician like he was made for the role. 

Regis is making friends, and Geralt gets this weird ache every time he thinks about it; endearing himself to people in his life looks effortless for Regis, like this is the way he was always meant to exist, had the addiction not destroyed that chance. Geralt is happy to see Regis settling in, because it’s clear the change is much harder than the former vampire lets him see.

When Geralt tried to ask about Dettlaff, Regis looked like he might cry again. Geralt has no idea what the bond Regis shared with Dettlaff was, but judging by the reaction it has been wiped away, and its absence causes Regis pain. Geralt has no idea how to soothe that hurt.

Geralt knows, in his heart, that he always has a place for Regis in his world. His friend, to whom his mind still tries to refer as a vampire, is one of the few people Geralt consistently misses when he isn’t present. Only now they see each other every single day and Geralt doesn't know what to make of the feeling because he is still missing Regis, even when the man is right there.

Regis gestures towards the blacksmith. “Alpo asked me to mix up more of the aloe lotion. He says it soothes burns better than what he used to have.” He looks so content when he says it, and Geralt guesses it must be because Regis still feels a need to be useful. He doesn’t know what he could say or do to convince Regis he doesn’t need to be of use to be welcome. _ Wanted_, his mind supplies, as he realizes he’s just staring at Regis, who is looking at him and waiting for an answer.

“Right,” Geralt says. He wants to kick his misbehaving head. “Have everything you need?”

“Yes,” Regis nods. “Your garden is amazing.”

Geralt knows Regis has been taken with the patch he uses to grow herbs and useful plants. A thought occurs to him.

“What about working space?” he asks. Regis turns to look at him, and then he bites his lip. It’s a gesture that’s barely there, but it’s so new it always catches Geralt’s attention. He has no idea where Regis picked it up, but it’s unbelievably endearing. He knows it means Regis does need something, but doesn’t want to trouble Geralt by asking.

True enough, Regis just shrugs when he finally stops worrying his lip. “Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt chuckles. “Did I ever show you the laboratory?”

Regis’ eyes go wide and fascinated like he can’t prevent it, and Geralt grins at the sight. “Yeah. B-B found something in the wine cellar. Come on.”

He doesn’t bother putting on shoes, and Regis follows him after rescuing the abused cup to the table. He is wearing a used pair of soft loafers. The right one makes a very faint creak every time he steps, and Geralt isn’t sure whether Regis can hear it.

The air grows cool around them as they descend the stairs underground. Regis clearly doesn’t know where they are going, and when Geralt stops after the first flight, he bumps into the witcher’s back. He makes a soft sound as he quickly backs away, and Geralt swears he is blushing.

“The wall was a later addition,” Geralt says as he indicates the sturdy door before them. “And behind it, well. You’d better see it for yourself.” He turns the key and throws the door open. He keeps it locked because some kids like to play adventures, and the lab is full of dangerous equipment and chemicals. When Geralt sees the unbridled delight spreading on Regis’ face, he makes a mental note to find him a key of his own.

“Oh dear,” Regis breathes as he steps into the lab. He walks around the table and then stops to admire the still, eyes flicking between tubes and bottles, clearly impressed. When he finally turns to Geralt, he is smiling. It’s not the old smile, but Geralt’s stomach swoops at the sight of it because it’s open and bright, and it lights up the gloomy room.

Maybe he likes this new smile even better.

“This is magnificent,” Regis says. “Could I—do you think I could use this laboratory?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Geralt laughs. He is suddenly glad he could surprise Regis with the lab. He looks so damned happy. “I’ll have Alpo make you a key of your own.”

Regis’ mouth falls open, but he stays quiet, and Geralt knows this look: Regis is uncertain if he deserves whatever he is offered. He hopes he can show Regis he doesn’t have to feel that way, so he ignores it and keeps smiling as he nods to the door.

“Just keep the door locked. The kids like to play in the cellar, no matter how many grey hairs B-B says it gives him.”

Regis chuckles. The hint of color is still lingering on his cheeks, but there is a knowing look in his eyes. “Oh, I’m aware of that. Did you know they also like to climb the villa roof?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “They think they’re so sneaky, but I can hear their little feet when they scramble up there. I asked for that ladder in the back when we were renovating. Made some bullshit reason about maintenance, but it’s there so the kids have a way down.”

Regis chuckles, and as they lock the door and walk back outside Geralt knows he wants to hear that open, loud laughter from Regis again. More precisely, he wants to be the person to make Regis laugh like that.

Regis bids him goodbye at the doorway and heads to the garden. Geralt watches him go, waving greetings to some of the people he clearly knows by name, and that odd tightness makes him heave a sigh.

Before everything was thrown into foreign territory, Geralt knew exactly where he stood with Regis. They were friends, very close, but fundamentally set apart. Regis told him a great many things about vampires, but the big, glaring thing was his immortality. Higher vampires live so long human life is dwarfed by it. Even a witcher’s life is over in a blink of their eye. 

It wouldn’t have been fair by any stretch of imagination to pursue Regis. Geralt knew he’d most likely die sooner rather than later, so how could he subject Regis to the pain of living with that knowledge? It hurt, reaching that conclusion soon after he admitted his feeling for the barber-surgeon had never quite resided in the platonic area. It had been the only possible, sensible solution, and Regis always kept his walls up anyway. They were close, but they were never intimate in a way where you truly show the ugly and crooked bits of yourself to someone else.

And now it is shifting. Geralt knows Regis must still be overwhelmed by everything, so he tries to keep his own mounting confusion under the lid. It’s just getting harder, because Regis as a human is so much like his previous self, only now there isn’t a massive weight pressing him down; this new Regis is opening up, laughing more, getting frustrated with the reality of being a human, and it is making Geralt want things. It’s exhilarating, but most of all it’s inconvenient.

Geralt shakes his head to clear it as he goes back inside. His swords need maintenance, and the wraith managed to rip the left pauldron off of his armor. He considers fixing it, or asking Alpo to see to it, but then it occurs to Geralt that Regis has not visited Beauclair yet. They could go together, just for the fun of it. Geralt knows Regis is fascinated with the way food tastes, and there is an old, cosy restaurant they could visit, too.

His neck feels hot when he remembers the restaurant is always full of couples, and then he shakes his head again to drop the trail of thought.

***

Geralt emerges from his study when his stomach informs him it’s almost dinner time. He can hear Marlene and B-B in the kitchen, about to go home for the day. He has a passing thought as to where Regis might be, but then a thump above his head answers the question for him. He hears a few muffled words, and his curiosity sparks.

The stairs creak, and Geralt makes sure to step on them evenly. He could make his way up them quietly, but it must be disconcerting for Regis to suddenly hear so much less than before. Geralt knows he, personally, would be ready to climb the fucking walls by now.

There is another soft thump, then a hiss of pain.

“Well, now.” Regis doesn’t sound alarmed. If anything, his voice is frustrated and amused.

Geralt knocks on the door. “Hey, everything alright?”

“Come and see for yourself,” comes the reply.

Geralt opens the door and has to stifle a laugh. Regis is sitting on the floor, and in his scratched hands he is holding a shaking kitten. It’s a calico, and Geralt guesses it must be from the litter of the cat that reigns with an iron paw over the stables.

“Found a friend?” Geralt asks as he crouches down. He looks closer, and then he sees it: the kitten is missing its left hind leg. It’s not from trauma, so the kitten must have been born like that. Its eyes are open, but it’s pitifully small and skinny.

Regis looks down to the small feline when it tries to scratch him again. “Rosie and her brothers found her,” he says. “They brought her to me.” He looks troubled. The kitten seems to come to the conclusion that it won’t be escaping Regis’ grip, because it stops squirming and lets out the saddest meow Geralt has ever heard.

“Regis,” Geralt begins, but then he doesn’t know how to say what he is thinking. Regis looks up when he hears his tone.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know they think it won’t survive.” Very carefully he loosens his grip, and when the cat stays put he strokes its head. 

Geralt sighs, but a smile tugs at his mouth.

“Do you want to keep it?”

Regis’ eyes go wide again. He looks at the tiny ball of fluff in his lap, and Geralt knows it must be the first time he is able to pet a cat. Like witchers, vampires are not very popular among felines. Geralt is amazed the kitten isn’t currently spitting and hissing at him.

“Could I?” Regis asks. Before Geralt can formulate his answer, Regis gestures around himself. “This is your home. I’m your guest.”

Geralt huffs a breath, but his gut is tight with that same confusing feeling again.

Yes, it’s his home, but it was just a house until he made it his. He has surrounded himself with things and people he chose for the first time in his life. To think of a single location as a home is still a thought he’s getting used to, but to him the idea of it has always included sharing.

Witchers share everything with each other. It’s part of their code, and it’s one of the few things that applies across the different schools, too. Geralt knows that should Eskel or Lambert turn up, he’d offer them a place to stay, and that sentiment goes for Regis as well. Doubly so, because he is already getting used to Regis existing in the same spaces with him, and he wants to hold on to that.

“Yes.” Geralt wishes he had a tenth of Regis’ eloquence, because he wants to articulate what he is thinking. Instead he just manages one word, dropping it quietly between them. 

Regis smiles, and Geralt almost reaches for him. He doesn’t know what he’d do should the impulse become action, but his chest is warm when he looks at the cat again.

“How about we give it some milk? It looks half-starved.”

“She was the runt of the litter,” Regis agrees.

They go downstairs for dinner when the cat looks like it has settled in, and only then Geralt remembers to look at Regis’ hands. Or rather, he just turns around mid-step, because he is a forgetful asshole who still doesn’t remember his friend no longer has superhuman reflexes. Regis walks straight into him, and Geralt’s hands fly to his shoulders to steady him.

“Shit, sorry,” he grunts. He means to say something about the scratches, but instead his brain trips over itself.

Regis’ hands are pressed against his chest, and he is staring up at him, not backing away. He is _ definitely _blushing now. Geralt feels the sensible thoughts gutter out, because apparently cataloguing every tiny nuance of the redness as it comes to life is more important than not making as ass of himself.

It shouldn’t feel so intimate, but Geralt notices how warm Regis is. His own nose throws him off-balance, because Geralt keeps expecting to smell the pungent herbal aroma every time he and Regis pass each other by. Now there is the smell of soap, the same one he uses, as well as a faint whiff of whatever plants Regis has been working with. Just a very human scent, and Geralt realizes he is taking a deep breath before he can stop himself.

He knows the moment when it all becomes terribly awkward is imminent, but he can’t step away. Regis feels like he belongs there, pressed toe-to-chest against him, and Geralt can’t find the willpower to let go. He knows that he is most likely giving everything away, right then.

Regis surprises him. Instead of getting flustered and backing away he lets out a tiny laugh as his gaze drops. His hands linger for a while, and when he does step back it’s not hurried. He looks embarrassed, but not in a way that makes Geralt feel like he has to find all the words to apologize; it’s bashful and there is something considerate in it.

Regis looks like he acknowledges the moment for what it was. The observation makes Geralt relax and smile, too. They share a quick glance and then look away, both stifling a laugh. They keep standing almost close enough to touch, and it’s enough.

Geralt feels the tightness ease a little. They need more time, but unless he is terribly mistaken, he isn’t the only one feeling all their old walls crumble.

“You need to clean those cuts,” Geralt finally points out, just to say something and nudge the charged mood back towards normalcy.

Regis looks at his hands and nods. “I know.” He looks at Geralt, and his eyes are impossibly warm. “Should we have dinner?”

They eat out on the patio, and at some point Regis’ knee presses against Geralt’s under the table. It’s there and then it moves away. Geralt waits for a while and then repeats the motion. Only, he leaves his leg be. He hears Regis inhale so softly he almost misses it, but their conversation carries on normally.

Regis doesn’t move his leg away.


	5. Dynamic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta, once again, by this lovely trio: [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean).

**Dynamic**

/dʌɪˈnamɪk/

_ Adjective; (of a process or system) characterized by constant change, activity, or progress. _

His dream is heavy, almost oppressive, and when it suddenly releases its grip, Regis draws in a huge gasp. He blinks his eyes open, still more than half asleep, and feels the sheets cling to his sweaty skin. He takes a moment to just breathe, but the atmosphere of the dream refuses to leave. Without thinking, Regis closes his eyes and wades back in.

There was a body pinning him down. A man, bigger and heavier than Regis, and so warm he was sure his fingers would get singed. His touch was everywhere in the dream, and even thinking about it while almost awake makes Regis lick his lips. His hand drifts down and then stops, fingertips barely touching his pubic hair.

His erection is hot and insistent, throbbing between his legs where he is lying on his side. Regis spends a few short moments trying to decide, but then his mind calls back the stranger in the dream, holding him in place with no effort, and he buries his head in the pillow to stifle the sharp intake of breath.

He has refrained from touching himself up until now. Not because of some newly-acquired prudence, but because everything is so intense it leaves him exhausted by the time he goes to bed. Routines have been taking shape and he is apparently overcoming the worst of the shock, if his subconscious is to be believed.

He pushes his smallclothes out of the way and frees himself. He wraps his fingers around his cock slowly, testing how it feels, and then thumbs away the precome. A breath hisses between his teeth.

It’s not different, but it’s...closer, somehow. He has always loved sex, and there really isn’t much he hasn’t tried at one point or another, but now his body is new, unlike after each regeneration. It’s his body and at the same time it isn’t, and Regis indulges his curiosity to stroke along his length and revel in how it feels.

What differs from the past is the dream that clings to him. Each time it slips to the forefront Regis feels himself throb, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Being overpowered wasn’t possible for him earlier, not without copulating with another one of his kind, so he mostly dismissed it as far as fantasies went—but now it burns so bright. He imagines getting pushed against a wall, hands forcefully tilting his head up into a kiss, and a shudder runs down his spine.

His movements grow more urgent and his breath comes in gasps and stutters, because sweet elders, he can’t remember when a dream was last able to make him want something this much. A thought that is not originating from the dream pops up; him getting forced down on his knees, strong fingers prying open his lips before stuffing a cock inside—

He doesn’t quite manage to stifle the moan that tears free when he comes, because his climax punches through him. Regis whimpers softly into the pillow as he tries to avoid making a huge mess, but his hands are shaking and sweat beads on his forehead. He spends a long time coming down from the high, trying to catalogue the nuances but mostly just floating in the post-orgasm bliss.

When he finally gets up to clean himself he heaves a breath that’s half-amused, half-conflicted. The intensity of what he just experienced was surprising, but Regis has no idea whether the dream and the following string of fantasies are something he should, or could, pursue in real life. He gives himself a wash as he thinks it over, but no clear solution comes up.

He takes a look in the mirror. The shock of seeing himself looking back has mostly worn off by now, and Regis is able to focus on the essential: he needs a shave. Luckily he doesn’t need to do it every single day, but he is coming to see why Geralt used to hate having a beard. The bristles itch, and keeping them clean is a chore in itself. On top of that, shaving your own face is harder than doing it to someone else; the first time he did it, Regis just opted for getting rid of all his facial hair. Messing around with the mutton chops was too much to ask when he was trying his best not to slit his own throat.

He is getting better at it. He has let his sideburns grow back in, but he likes the clean-cut look having them toned down gives him. He has no idea whether he looks appealing in human standards, but he thinks he must maintain some veneer of professionalism if he hopes to keep practicing medicine. 

As he lathers up his cheeks and chin, Regis tries to keep his mind on the task at hand, but his brain has developed an annoying habit of jumping from topic to topic unlike before. Mental associations come quicker to him now, but they are infinitely more chaotic, so there really isn’t much he can call a win. 

He swipes the straight razor down his cheek and thinks of Geralt. The witcher has been working his traditional trade all week, because as summer draws to a close the necrophages go in for the last kill before they are forced to settle down into cemeteries for the upcoming winter. There have also been more and more cases of vampires causing trouble. None of them have been major, just one or two lesser vampires and a solitary alp, but even those are too close for comfort.

The two of them have seen each other for dinner most nights, and the domesticity has done nothing to put out the small, hopeful flame inside Regis’ chest. He doesn’t know what Geralt is thinking or feeling. Asking wouldn’t do him much good, if past experiences of discussing emotions are anything to go by, and Regis is reluctant to do so anyway. Whatever is building between them feels too important to put into words just yet, because both of them are hovering, looking for places where the ground can hold their collective weight. They are rebuilding their friendship, but something else is mixing into the process, and Regis knows what it is on his end.

Small, occasional touches have become a thing. It is something that could be passed off as platonic affection were it not so deliberate. Whenever Geralt finds Regis reading, he lets his hand land on his shoulder for a few moments, thumb brushing the skin of his neck. Regis’ feet have a habit of tangling with Geralt’s when they eat, and while neither of them makes a comment about it, it’s obvious both of them know he does it on purpose.

And all of that could still be normal and just something friends do, but there is an invisible charge between them. Regis feels it every time he touches Geralt, and the witcher must feel it too, because he is good at controlling his facial expressions, but there is one thing that he apparently doesn’t have a say over.

When Regis walked into Geralt the night he found the crippled kitten, he almost backed away. But the witcher just stood there staring at him, and then his pupils blew wide. Regis was on the verge of apologizing, but he forgot to move away because right then he saw that maybe he didn’t have to; maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling lost and confused because of how much he was suddenly wanting to press closer.

Regis has not dared to imagine any further than that, but right when he runs the razor down his chin a new image surfaces; instead of a faceless stranger pressing him down, it’s Geralt.

His hand slips, and because the razor is so sharp, he barely feels the cut. Only when red blooms down his chin Regis swears softly and bends over then wash basin to clean it. He exhales in relief when he notices it’s not a deep wound. He holds his finger over it for a few minutes until it stops bleeding.

He is about to wash when he looks down on his hand. His blood is very bright red, and seeing it makes him pause. He spent so many years trapped by this, a bodily fluid that carries oxygen and other chemicals around the human body; so much shame and time in pain because he couldn’t control his addiction. All gone.

He doesn’t think about it when he lifts his fingers to his mouth. 

He remembers the way drinking blood feels; the explosion of information and euphoria the first sip gives, as well as the way the world starts to rock gently when enough is consumed. Now he tastes salt and iron, and technically he has always known what blood _ really _ tastes like, but it is such an anticlimax he lets out a laugh. There’s no humor in it.

The thirst is gone. There is nothing left, and Regis knew it, but this seals that knowledge. He is free.

As he dresses up he is forced to think about Dettlaff again. He has been trying to push away the hurt because there is nothing whatsoever he can do about it, but it surfaces like a drowner from a bog. Getting used to being alone in his head is the slowest adjustment, because he doesn’t want to touch it; the silence that replaced the bond _ hurts _. 

Would Dettlaff still call him brother? Would he even recognize Regis? Regis closes his eyes as he thinks of the questions that keep plaguing him whenever there is nothing to occupy his mind. Geralt asked about the bond because contrary to what people believe, the witcher is thoughtful and attentive; Regis wasn’t able to answer, because the sorrow of losing it chokes him whenever he remembers it.

Would Regis’ blood smell as appealing to Dettlaff now, as Geralt’s had smelled to Regis before he stepped off the metaphorical cliff and plummeted to mortal life?

The thought makes him nauseous. Regis finishes dressing up, slips his comfortable shoes on, and makes sure the kitten is still sleeping in her basket before leaving the room. He leaves the door cracked open so she might leave to explore when she wakes.

Regis is surprised to find Geralt sitting in the kitchen. The witcher is chatting with Marlene, but jumps to his feet when Regis enters.

“Mornin’,” he says with a smile. His eyes move from Regis’ hair to his face and then lower, and a frown appears. He blinks rapidly.

“I’ve gotta take care of something, but I have an idea what we might do today,” he tells Regis, and then leaves the room before getting any kind of an answer. Regis stares after him but when Marlene rolls her eyes he shrugs and sits down.

“Some day that man will just trip over himself,” she sighs as she offers Regis a cup of coffee. Regis smells the aroma and smiles, because he discovered quite by accident that he likes his coffee black and with a hint of vanilla. He never mentioned it to Marlene, but the woman noticed he kept adding it to his coffee.

“I wonder what Geralt has on his mind,” Regis muses as he breaks his fast. “I thought he still has plenty of necrophage contracts to take care of.”

“He does,” Marlene says. “There is also what the knights errant call a vampire making trouble near Villa Vedette.” She notices Regis going stiff and pats his arm.

Regis looks down at his meal and there is a hollow space inside his chest. Geralt hunting vampires is never a pleasant thought. Even before Regis became a human, most of the ensuing distress was caused by his worry over the witcher, and not the harm done to his brethren. Now it is much worse, because Regis can truly appreciate the differences between a human and a vampire. Even when he has a perfectly average human body and Geralt is exceptional even among witchers, the idea of him going toe to toe with a bruxa, an alp, or a garkain makes acid rise into Regis’ throat.

Regis forces himself to finish eating, and he is feeling a little better when he steps out of the house. The day is bright, and Alpo gives him a cheerful wave from his forge. Regis waves back and then he spots Geralt by the stables. The dream and the subsequent thoughts flash through his mind, but Regis forcefully shoves it away. It won’t do him any good to get riled up.

Geralt looks up from where he is digging out dirt from Roach’s front hoof. “Hey. Finished with breakfast?” There is no trace of whatever made him behave oddly, so Regis decides to let it go.

“Yes. Did you have something in mind?” Regis carefully moves closer, but Roach only sniffs at him and then loses interest when he has no treats to offer. One of the pleasant things about being a human is being able to interact with animals.

“I was thinking we could go up to Beauclair,” Geralt says, straightening up. “I need to take my armor and swords to Lafargue, and you could probably use some supplies, right?”

Regis nods, but then he looks away. He still hasn’t broached the topic of visiting the crypt, but now he has to.

“All my belongings that might be of use are still at the cemetery,” he says quietly. “I never had much need for money, but what I do have is still there. Provided the kikimores have not discovered an appetite for gold,” he adds. It makes Geralt chuckle.

“Don’t worry about it. We can go get your stuff, but maybe not today.” Geralt looks honest and untroubled by it all, so Regis sighs and nods. He hates imposing, but he has little option. And Geralt never complains about this.

“Alright,” Regis says. “I’d be glad to go.”

“Remember how riding works?”

Regis snorts. “I’m human, not a dement. Do you have a horse I can borrow?”

“Some of the workers own horses, and they said you can borrow them if you have a need,” Geralt says. He leaves Roach where she is tethered outside the stables, and they walk into the cool building.

It smells of hay and animals in there, and Regis draws in a deep breath. He can’t smell even nearly as much as he used to, but already the old way of experiencing the world is becoming fuzzy. It worries him a bit, how quickly he is capable of forgetting those things.

“Here we go.” Geralt stops next to a black horse that is poking its head over the lower half of the door. “I’d say you’re best off picking her. Alpo’s sister owns her, and she sometimes races me.”

Regis extends his hand, and the horse bumps her muzzle to it. She’s pitch black, and her brown eyes look at him with an intelligent glint.

“Does she have a name?” Regis asks, stroking her neck.

“Dawn. Diana has a sense of humor,” Geralt says. “You need help getting her saddled up?”

Regis shakes his head, and after Geralt shows him where Dawn’s saddle and bit are, he walks her out of the stables. Roach greets Dawn with a whicker, and Geralt watches Regis as he works the saddle and stirrups into place. Dawn accepts the bit eagerly, and Regis smiles. Her owner treats her well, it seems. He is curious to meet this Diana, because Alpo is a nice man who was eager to befriend the newcomer of the estate.

Geralt waits outside as Regis goes back inside to fetch a hat and his satchel. Mounting up comes from muscle memory, and even though Dawn is built completely different from Draakul the mule or the bay Regis rode when they were with the hansa, it feels good to sit in the saddle and feel the gentle rocking gait.

The way isn’t very long and the road is busy. Geralt never stops to talk, but he exchanges greetings with almost everyone he meets. Regis rides behind him, trying to keep Dawn from getting impatient everytime the road is blocked by a carriage or a herd of sheep, and takes it all in.

No one has prevented him from leaving Corvo Bianco, but Regis has been very comfortable there. In the weeks that have passed, he has started to build a routine for himself, and it's refreshing to step away from it. Seeing so many foreign faces makes him feel shy, but excitement keeps his back straight. 

Regis notices that the number of knights errant and ducal guards goes up the closer they get to the city. He knows why it is so, but the sight makes him look down for a while. He is fairly sure no one will be able to recognize him, and even if they did, what could he be blamed for?

A lot, if someone were to ask Regis himself, but from the point of view of the humans, not much.

Geralt watches him, and Regis manages a smile. The witcher nods, as if to say he knows what Regis is thinking, but they ride on in silence. 

Once they make it through the Cooper’s Gate it becomes clear it will be quicker to walk. There is a stable near the gate, and after leaving Roach and Dawn in the capable hands of two stablegirls, Geralt and Regis continue on foot. Geralt carries the saddlebags with the armor, and Regis holds the two swords that need repairs. They are not very heavy, but by the time they pass the Gran’place and he sees the sign of Lafargue’s shop, his arms are aching.

Geralt props the door open for him, and grins knowingly when Regis surrenders the swords with a faint sigh of relief. Lafargue has finally taken on an apprentice, and the young girl looks like she might have some elven blood in her. She chats with Geralt and bombards him with questions about the repairs he wants and what monsters he has been fighting lately. Regis hangs back and watches, amused.

Lafargue steps into the front room and his face immediately splits into a delighted smile. He is dressed impeccably, and looks nothing like Regis expected. It is clear he’s been born and raised in Beauclair.

“Geralt! I was thinking you had forgotten where I live.” They shake hands and Geralt laughs.

“As if I could forget.”

Regis finds he enjoys watching Geralt interact with people who know and like him. Just watching Geralt is nice, because with human perception Regis finds that he can appreciate the general picture more, without getting caught up in the minutiae of sensory input. The front room of Lafargue’s shop is dim and cozy, and Geralt glows in the warm light; there really isn’t another way to describe him. He is not clad in armor, and seeing him in casual clothing away from home feels special, too.

Geralt also has several voices he uses. His register is always the same, untroubled by formalities when he isn’t in danger of getting punished for it, but his tones shift. With Lafargue, it’s easy and good-natured, not overly familiar and with clear mutual respect. Regis has heard Geralt talk with Marlene, and he speaks softer then, with more care for his volume. With Barnabas-Basil, there is a similar respect as with Lafargue, but also enough familiarity to show frustration and teasing.

Geralt turns around, his business complete, and gives Regis a smile. “Ready to go?”

“As ever,” Regis says. He gets caught up on Geralt’s voice, because he had not noticed earlier how it changes when Geralt talks to him. Regis can’t put a name to the shift, but it makes him feel—desired, almost. There’s nothing inappropriate in it, Regis reflects as they walk down the street, hands occasionally brushing. Just a note that simultaneously puts him at ease and makes his heart beat a bit faster.

***

Geralt decides to step back once they reach the apotechary. He stands back and lets Regis browse in peace. The man running the shop knows them both, and he was delighted to hear Corvo Bianco once again housed a medical professional. He assumed right away that Regis has come to stay, and Geralt just shrugged when Regis threw him a helpless glance. The man, Reginald something something, was already babbling away, commiserating the hot summer and the way it affected general health.

Geralt knows, technically, that Regis was once shy. What he did not expect was that trait to come out now, after everything they have been through. Regis is polite with Reginald, but he holds himself carefully and with tension deep in his frame. He speaks normally, but Geralt hears Regis has to put energy in keeping his tone smooth.

It is new, and Geralt doesn’t know how it makes him feel, apart from an urgent need to step closer to Regis. He holds back because he doubts Regis would appreciate him fussing over him, but the need remains. There is no danger present, but Geralt’s gut is tight with a need to make sure Regis is feeling alright.

“You okay?” Geralt asks him when they step out from the pungent-smelling shop and into bright sunlight. The narrow street is busy with people coming and going, and the bustle affords them some privacy as they stop in the shade of a balcony.

“I am, thank you.” Regis looks up from his satchel and his lips twitch. “I never expected talking with unfamiliar people would become difficult again, after all these years, but it will pass.”

Geralt smiles. Without thinking, he takes Regis’ hand and gives his fingers a short squeeze. Regis blinks, and that delightful redness appears on his cheeks again. He doesn’t pull his hand away.

“It’s sort of...sweet,” Geralt says. He knows he is testing the waters, and that maybe a busy street in the centre of Beauclair isn’t the best place to do so, but he has to articulate some of the mess that is brewing inside him. He wants to tell Regis that even though his brain is slow to catch up on the fact that his friend is fundamentally different, he’s doing his best, and that the change isn’t necessarily for the worse.

Regis’ cheeks grow redder and he looks down. Geralt is almost ready to let go of him and start talking about the weather, when Regis winds their fingers properly together and steps just a little closer. Geralt inhales the smell of soap, horse, and vanilla.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Regis’ whisper is very quiet. He looks up, and even though he is clearly struggling, he is giving Geralt a smile that makes his stomach swoop. His eyes are bright and eager, framed by his dark brows and the hair that curls stubbornly. In short, he looks gorgeous.

Geralt’s gaze falls to Regis’ mouth, to that small smile that is meant only for him, and it takes all of his willpower not to lean closer there and then. He licks his lips, sees Regis’ eyes dart to it and back up, and then he can’t help but laugh. He gives Regis’ hand another squeeze before taking a step back to allow them both some space to breathe.

“That makes two of us,” he murmurs just loud enough for Regis to hear. Regis lets out a delighted peal of laughter, rubbing his eyes and relaxing again. Someone bumps into him as they walk past, and Geralt automatically reaches out to steady his friend. Regis smiles at him as he nods his head.

“The bookshop next, yes?”

“Lead the way,” Geralt says. He is feeling loose and happy. 

One piece of the puzzle falls into place not an hour later. Regis needs to find a medical text, and the clerk of the bookshop doesn’t want to help him. At first she is just gruff, but when Regis comes back from his search and asks her about the text again, she gets rude and barks an insult straight to his face.

Geralt almost steps in. He is on his feet and moving when Regis snaps at the lady, eyes hard as flint and drawing himself up with folded arms. He isn’t particularly tall and sure as hell clocks in on the side of skinny, but something about his previous self surfaces right then. His voice drops into a severe drawl, and the woman slinks back. Geralt sits back down, and hides his smile when Regis glances at him and rolls his eyes, exasperated.

The lady becomes more helpful after that, and Geralt lets his thoughts circulate back to what he felt in that moment. He was alight with an urgent need to protect Regis. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t a real threat, because all of his mind narrowed down to that need. Geralt sighs and makes a note that he is apparently finally starting to remember that Regis is a human now, but because nothing is ever easy, his brain careened straight to the opposite end of the spectrum.

He knows his feelings for Regis and their current amorphous state are to blame. Geralt doesn’t dare to name what he is starting to feel, but it is a thing with weight and substance, and it leads to Regis becoming a person whom Geralt wants to protect from harm to the best of his ability. The thing is, Geralt is acutely aware of the flipped dynamic of power between them. Now Geralt is the one who has to watch out so he doesn’t break anything. 

Geralt knows he always wants to protect those he cares about, and the feeling has encompassed Regis in the past. But now it’s shifting, changing shape, and becoming something _ real _, because Regis said it himself: he can’t really fight anymore. Geralt wants to step up and take that role, because he wanted it in the past when it was impossible, and now it is not.

Then he sighs and rubs his face. Regis and the lady are actually laughing now, and Geralt watches them launch into a good-natured argument about the text Regis is currently holding. Regis isn’t a person in distress Geralt needs to save. Regis doesn’t need saving, period. He needs Geralt to be there for him, but not as a worried, hovering presence. Their entire relationship is changing, and Geralt needs to know they are both moving towards the same thing with full understanding of what the hell they’re dancing around.

True, Geralt is now the stronger one, the one with an imposing figure. On top of that Regis, mistakenly and out of his inherent stubbornness, feels like he owes Geralt something for getting to live at Corvo Bianco. It is definitely not an ideal balance of power for anyone to navigate. 

If something is to happen, Regis needs to know he has the choice to back out and say no at any time. Geralt feels nauseous at the thought of taking advantage of Regis, physically or mentally, and then there is a flush of relief when he reaches the obvious conclusion: Regis will get to set the pace from now on. Somehow Geralt will have to show he is available and there for him, but he will let his friend decide how and when they grow closer, if they ever do. 

Geralt knows Regis misses Dettlaff, and the last thing he needs is to worry if his only remaining friend is about to vanish, too. Regis needs to be able to trust that he will have a home, even if they never take a single step closer to each other. Geralt must find a way to not fuck this up, because Regis is too important to lose.

Geralt knows he is smiling as he watches Regis haggle with the lady of the shop. At some point Regis turns his head and sees it, and for a second he clearly loses his track of thought. Geralt looks down as he bites back a chuckle, and when he looks again Regis is paying for the text and his ears have gone red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO look at me writing an E-rated fic and taking five chapters to get to anything explicit. :D:D MORE TO COME I SWEAR.


	6. Ignite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Ignite**

/ɪɡˈnʌɪt/

_ Verb; catch fire or cause to catch fire; arouse or inflame (an emotion or situation). _

Regis expects them to leave the city after they have finished with errands, but when he asks about returning, Geralt shakes his head. The witcher refuses to say anything more, and Regis’ chest feels bubbly with nerves and excitement as they walk on. The afternoon is drawing to a close when they stop, and Regis realizes they are standing next to a small restaurant that almost vanishes into the wall because a messy wildrose has taken over the building.

“Hungry?” Geralt asks, eyes twinkling, and Regis nods. He wants to say he can make it back home, but then stays quiet because Geralt looks so pleased with himself. Regis follows him in and through another door to a balcony overlooking Seidhe Llygad. The view is breathtaking, and Geralt has to nudge him to move when a waiter points them to a table.

“You don’t have to,” Regis says when they are seated. It is not a place for white tablecloths and fine dining, but it is cosy. He is surprised it isn’t full at that time of the day.

“I know,” Geralt answers with a shrug. “But I got a tip that there is a new-crop wine festival right outside of the city tonight, so the centre is likely to be quiet.” There is something else under his easy-going manner, and Regis can guess as to what; this is for them both, a short break and a chance to spend time together.

By the time they finish eating, Geralt’s leg is once again pressing against Regis’ under the table and both of them are leaning forward as they talk, voices drifting in the early evening. Regis has been wary of trying out alcohol until now, and he limits himself to one glass of wine. It feels like a good decision; there is a low buzz inside his skull and his smiles come easier, but that’s about it. 

Geralt looks somehow calmer than earlier. He has been his own steady self during the time Regis has been looking for his lost footing, but now there is a new sort of ease to him. He looks at Regis without averting his gaze when he gets caught doing it, and it results in them locking eyes a lot more. Eye contact feels intimate, and Regis can’t for the life of him understand how humans could find the cat eyes repulsive or unsettling. To him they are warm and familiar, and to have them focus solely on him makes his neck feel hot.

When they finally walk to get the horses, Regis doesn’t know how he could begin to thank Geralt for everything he is doing. The witcher has said time and again Regis doesn’t owe him anything, but that’s not it. Regis is so full of sensations and feelings, yet somehow Geralt’s presence commands his attention thoroughly, giving Regis a break. They are silent as they walk, and Regis feels himself blush when his mind tries to make him imagine things one step further: just how quiet would his mind go if they were to kiss?

He has to hide his shaking hands inside his pockets, but Geralt still looks at him with a raised eyebrow, pupils once again wide and a warm hand brushing against Regis when they turn a corner. Regis almost grabs it, but he stops himself. He is sure that if he did, Geralt would stop and wait, and if Regis tried to pull, he’d only reel himself in.

Would Geralt be waiting for it?

Dawn snorts at him when he mounts up, and since the roads are emptier they are able to ride out at a brisk pace. The sun is setting and the festival must have pulled the majority of the townsfolk to the fairgrounds; the air is cooling and dominated by birdsong. Saddles creaking, horses snorting, until—

“Wanna race?” Geralt asks, eyes lighting in challenge. The rest of the way is down a gentle slope, turning up the hill that leads to the gates of Corvo Bianco, and Regis feels adrenaline light up his body.

He kicks Dawn into a gallop without waiting for an answer, and Geralt barks a laugh when he follows suit. The black horse hears the hooves hit the road behind them and her ears prick forward; she has been waiting for a chance to run, and Regis grins against the wind as he stands in the stirrups and leans over her neck, low and light.

Geralt might be the one with more experience and a horse he knows inside and out, but he is heavy-set. For the first time since the change Regis takes honest delight in his small frame. Dawn clearly knows how to run with a light rider, and it’s easy to fall in step with the gallop.

Regis sees Roach draw level with him and Dawn, and his eyes meet with Geralt’s for a short second. The witcher is laughing, looking so alive, and Regis grins as he turns his head forward and urges Dawn on for the last stretch of the road. They never agreed where the finish line is, but both reach the last hill at the same time and slow down when the buildings of the estate can be seen through the trees.

Dawn is covered in foam and breathing heavily, throwing her head and sidestepping until Regis leans low and murmurs into her ear, stroking down her neck. The horse listens to him and snorts, and as she settles Regis hears his own heart hammering and his breaths coming hard. His fingers are tingling when he loosens his grip on the reins. He is so glad to be alive right then, even though his body will certainly remind him of this tomorrow.

“Next time you won’t get so lucky,” Geralt says when they dismount at the gates. He is flushed and grinning, and Regis very nearly steps into his space. He halts before the urge becomes more than a sway, and Geralt waits for a spell before smiling and walking Roach towards the stables.

Seeing to the horses grounds him, and Regis sinks into the slow, methodical routine of washing the sweaty, steaming animal. Dawn’s ears droop as he carefully checks her hooves and legs, soaking them in cold water one at a time, and when Regis is done he presses his cheek against the damp, warm fur on her neck. 

Regis uses the last of the cool water to rinse his hands and then runs them through his hair. Life is so full of these small things he never even thought of: the unease of being sweaty and sore from riding, but also how good it feels when cold water runs over his face and dampens his hair.

Geralt is suddenly there, and before Regis manages more than a breathy smile the witcher reaches for his hair and pushes it back. The fingers are warm as they card through his curls, and Regis melts into it because it is so intimate it makes his chest tingle. He draws in a careful breath and tries to keep his eyes open, but Geralt doesn’t stop; he doesn’t do anything else either, just stands close enough to radiate heat and run his hand through Regis’ hair, so long that the initial stab of excitement mellows into deeper comfort.

Regis opens his eyes when Geralt’s hand comes to rest against his cheek. Regis lets his own hand lay on top of it as they stand there, staring at each other. It is easy and exhilarating, and Regis doesn’t know whether he expects Geralt to do something more or not. He waits, but Geralt is content to stay still, thumb brushing Regis’ cheekbone. 

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh, and something in it finally undoes Regis, makes tension in his chest uncoil without a warning. He doesn’t think about it, just closes the distance and cranes his head up. There is no time to wonder whether it is welcome because Geralt’s arms close around him, a hand cups the back of his head, and then they are finally,  _ finally  _ kissing. Regis lets out a soft, high sound of pleasure when their lips meet.

Geralt holds him tight. Regis feels a stab of relief, because the witcher is not treating him like a thing made of glass: his hand grips Regis’ damp hair, and his arm is possessively firm around his waist. Regis’s arms tighten around his neck, and Geralt sucks in a sharp breath. Regis parts his lips at the sound, no thoughts in his head, just a dull buzzing that is saturated with feeling.

Geralt’s tongue slips into his mouth slowly, testing the reaction. Regis can’t help gasping, pressing still closer, and Geralt’s arms grow tighter before loosening again. It’s endearing restraint, and Regis wouldn’t mind being handled with more power if his head wasn’t swimming already.

When he finally pulls back, Geralt doesn’t let him get far. Their breaths ghost over slick lips, hot and urgent, and Regis almost leans right back in after drawing in a few gulps of air. Geralt laughs in a low voice Regis instantly loves, and instead leans their foreheads together.

“Damn,” he breathes. His fingers scratch Regis’ scalp gently, and it sends a shiver down his spine. He is so near to embarrassing himself, and he doesn’t really care. Most likely Geralt is able to smell how Regis’ body is reacting to their proximity and the kiss anyway.

Geralt presses a kiss to the corner of Regis’ mouth and then draws back enough to look at him. His pupils have gone completely round, and Regis can’t help the smile that takes over his face.

“There are so many things I wanna do with you,” Geralt whispers. Regis can’t help shuddering at the intimacy it all implies. Geralt laughs, cupping his cheek to lean into another kiss. Their tongues meet again, and it’s filthy and perfect and almost too much. They are sweaty and dusty, and anyone could walk in and see them. The last thought makes Regis suck on Geralt’s bottom lip as he grows harder.

Geralt moans, so low it’s more a rumble against Regis’ chest, and then he pulls back. There is a dazed look in his eyes. They stare at each other for a second and then they both start to laugh; it’s one part just sheer joy, one part relief. Regis is going pliant with want, and Geralt is catching up to it. They stay there for a few moments longer and then Geralt hugs him.

“Maybe not just yet?” he asks in a whisper. Regis buries his flaming face into Geralt’s neck and even when his sense of smell is duller than before he can smell the lust there. The hug is intimate, but it calms them down, brings them back a semblance of clarity.

“I want to,” Geralt goes on when Regis stays quiet. “I want to just—take you apart. But I wanna do it right.”

Regis shivers again. Geralt sounds so sure, like Regis is exactly the person he wants pressed head to toe against himself, like he has spent time thinking about  _ this _ . Regis isn’t new to feeling wanted, but this is different. He wants something that wasn’t available before and which still terrifies him as much as it excites him: he wants to yield. He wants to acknowledge that he isn’t the stronger party and enjoy it. What’s more, Regis wants Geralt to enjoy that, too.

“Yes,” Regis finally remembers to answer. He moves his head and looks Geralt in the eye. He wants to articulate this terrifying thing with as little room for misunderstanding as possible. “I want you.”

Geralt’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Regis smiles. He likes that even on this side of the kiss they still know each other well, and can both draw comfort from that familiarity. Even when the kiss and whatever will follow have been a long time coming.

“It feels...exciting, not having to be the stronger one,” Regis forces himself to say, just to see what Geralt will think. He doesn’t expect the witcher to visibly flush when the words hit home. He averts his gaze, but an embarrassed little smile plays at his mouth.

“I hope not bad exciting?” Geralt finally asks. He can’t really blush, but he looks almost nervous. It disappears when Regis laughs and shakes his head.

“No. Quite the contrary.”

At that moment Dawn decides they have been given enough time to make sentimental faces at each other; she stomps her hooves and whinnies, and Regis steps away from Geralt with a laugh.

“Yes, forgive me,” he says to Dawn. He hears Geralt chuckle when he leads the horse back to her stall.

They walk back to the villa together. The silence between them is charged but comfortable. Regis is tempted to kiss Geralt again, but he forces himself to just bid him goodnight at the door. Regis knows Geralt is giving him space, but the witcher might need that just as well. They exchange a glance that is so full of everything, and then Regis escapes to the room where they boil water for laundry and bathing.

As he bathes, it occurs to Regis they both must use the same soap. He wonders whether Geralt can smell it on him. He makes a mental note to find out what scents the witcher finds appealing, because there has been talk about them needing more soap soon, and Regis knows how to add herbs and flowers to the mix for pleasant aromas.

Even after he is clean his body feels like it’s filled with sizzling heat. Regis climbs the steps upstairs on light feet. The bedroom is cool and quiet, and he spends only a few seconds deliberating before climbing into the bed naked. The sheets have been changed, and a faint smell of lavender catches his attention. 

Most of it is diverted to the insistent, burning need to touch himself, and Regis starts by just running his hands over his chest and sides. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s not himself, but Geralt doing the touching, and his cock twitches, already heavy and warm between his thighs. He lets his hand brush it as they sweep down, massaging the thighs and then creeping back up. Without thinking Regis digs his blunt nails into his flanks, and a breath hisses out as he feels himself leak.

Causing and receiving pain always left him weak. Natanis brought it up, and Regis found he enjoyed the clash of pain and pleasure. What he didn’t expect was how easily the succubus had him shudder apart when the strikes were turned on him. He gasped his way through it, coming completely undone, and there had been such a bright, victorious smile on Natanis’ tattooed face.

_ “You must understand, my dear,” _ she said afterwards, when the welts had already healed and Regis was still floating in the blissed out state, _ “being able to teach something new to a being as old as you is remarkable.” _

Regis remembers all the different things they tried during the months they had together, and thinking about them now with a human body is overwhelming. How would a paddle feel? Biting? Crop? How long would the marks last?

Regis claws a line up his thigh as he finally starts to stroke himself, and he has to muffle a whimper. It’s too much, it’s not enough. His hand moves urgently, cock absolutely leaking with the fantasies flickering through his head, and Regis imagines Geralt bending him over and taking him. The witcher would start gently, but maybe once they were more familiar with each other, when he could be sure Regis would not break…

It takes him only a little time to reach climax, and what sends him over is an image of getting forced on his knees again and Geralt fucking his face. Regis pants and tries to keep quiet, tries to refrain from guessing whether Geralt is touching himself right at this very moment and thinking of Regis. The mental image makes Regis shudder, body shaking with the release of tension.

Sleep comes easily that night.

***

Geralt hears Regis’ light steps go up the stairs and the door closes, and he guesses the bathing chamber is free. The temptation to simply follow Regis is still there, and Geralt grits his teeth.  _ He  _ was the one who suggested they take it slow, for fuck’s sake, and now he is sitting here, half-hard and trying to remember all his good reasons.

He doesn’t regret taking things slower. In fact, Geralt isn’t sure Regis would’ve wanted to fuck him yet. Many things have changed, but Regis’ considerate and careful nature isn’t one of them. They both were wound up when they got to the stables, but this is too important.

Geralt gets to his feet, but a faint noise from upstairs almost makes him trip over the rug on the floor. He freezes, heart pumping, and there it is again: a muffled moan. Geralt buries his face into his hands as he sinks back to his bed. He sits very still and tries to ignore his rapidly hardening cock, but an audible hitch of breath follows.

What was he expecting? They were both hard out there and rubbing against each other, after spending weeks dancing around all this. Of course Regis would touch himself after that. Hell, Geralt had planned on spending some quality time with his right hand after the bath.

Geralt realizes his hand is drifting towards the front of his trousers and he stills. Is it somehow wrong to masturbate to the sounds of your love interest touching himself? Does it make him a creep if he takes himself in hand now instead of in half an hour, when he will anyway be thinking of the exact same thing? 

It doesn’t make life easier that Geralt knows what Regis’ lust smells like. That same morning he very nearly inhaled his coffee because while it was faint, Regis smelled of sex when he came downstairs. The fact that Geralt recognized the scent so quickly made him conclude that he must have smelled it earlier,  _ and  _ that he needed to get the hell out of the kitchen before he well and truly embarrassed himself.

A gasp, muffled by the building but still audible, makes Geralt growl low in his throat as he rips his trousers down. His breath escapes in one long stutter as he wraps his fingers around his aching length. He tries to go slow, but the memory of kissing Regis and feeling him grow hard burns in his head, and it is too much. Geralt wonders if Regis is thinking of the same thing. Doesn’t he know Geralt can hear him?

Is that what Regis wants?

Geralt slams a hand in front of his mouth as his cock gives a violent twitch at the thought. He has to take a moment to gather himself, and when he goes on it’s quiet upstairs but inside his head it is suddenly very loud and bright. 

Geralt said he wanted to take Regis apart. It’s true, because something about Regis suddenly being the figurative underdog in their relationship is making a possessive, hungry emotion lift its head. Geralt remembers Regis saying he doesn’t mind the thought of being physically weaker for a change, but how far does that sentiment extend?

Geralt rolls his balls in his other hand, breaths slipping in and out too quickly. There are so many things he wants to do with Regis, and to him; Geralt imagines eating him out until the man is reduced to a begging mess, and then fucking him slow and deep, watching Regis’ face crumble and the veneer of control slip away.

Geralt gasps at the thought of taking charge. He’s always been assertive, but there is something new here, because Regis went so pliant earlier, and imagining it now makes that new, possessive monster inside him purr with pleasure. Geralt tries to hold off coming all over himself, but the mental image of Regis on his knees sends him hurtling over the edge. He is beyond caring about the mess he makes, because his mind is on fire, and his climax drags on and on until he collapses on the bed.

Bathing happens in a sort of daze, and sleep is tugging at his mind when he closes the chamber door and makes his way to the kitchen for a snack before bed. His head feels light, vaguely going over the details of a contract he got earlier this week—what is looking like ekimmaras, possibly a whole nest—and in the haze he almost steps on the three-legged kitten. It glares at him, but unlike most cats doesn’t hiss and spit. As Geralt putters around the pantry, it creeps closer and makes a hopeful little grumble. Geralt turns to look at it.

“You’ve been fed already.”

The kitten sits down and looks at him seriously. It meows again.

“Liar,” Geralt says, and then he cuts a small piece of sausage and tosses it to the kitten. It starts to eat, and when it’s done, it slinks closer and pushes against his bare ankle. Geralt looks down, and the kitten purrs at him.

“I’m not your owner, you know,” he says to it. “He’s upstairs.”

The kitten looks like it couldn’t care less. It continues rubbing against his ankle until Geralt gives in and crouches down.

“Wonder if he’s named you yet.” The dappled fur is silky soft under his fingers, and Geralt finds he is smiling. The cat doesn’t look like the missing leg bothers it much, and Geralt knows Regis is growing very attached to the little bugger.

The seconds tick by, and Geralt realizes the warm feeling in his chest isn’t just afterglow from the mind-shattering orgasm. He is feeling happy. His nerves are making themselves known, because they still haven’t talked about what this thing between them is, but Geralt knows there and then it’s not just physical on his part.

He always knew his feelings for Regis had the potential to develop into something beyond friendship, but realizing they have gone ahead without consulting him makes Geralt pause. The kitten makes a protesting mewl, but when it concludes the petting won’t resume, it decides to leave, hobbling up the two stairs to the foyer. Geralt stares after it and tries to make sense of the jumble of dread, hope, and that warm feeling he doesn’t want to name.

If he calls it what it is, does he jinx this somehow? 

The memory of the djinn surfaces, and Geralt grimaces in the dark kitchen. He regrets his last wish. He started regretting it when it became apparent that while he and Yen definitely had chemistry and feelings for each other, those two alone were not enough to make either of them happy. They drifted apart, crashed back together, and repeated it ad nauseam, until he lost his memory and both of them thought the other dead for several years.

And then they fell back into the same story again, and for a while it looked like that time might be the charm; they were united in finding and saving Ciri, their daughter. They argued so much less than before. Sex was great, even if half of it had to be had on top of the damn unicorn. For a very short while during their first visit to Ard Skellig, Geralt tried to believe in a happy ending.

Then Yen wanted to go look for a djinn, and Geralt knew he had to help. He had not asked Yen whether she wanted to be bound to a brooding witcher for the rest of her life. He had been young and stupid when the djinn was trying to drop a house on him, and a crazy hope of finding something that lasts, someone who would stay, had made him utter the words that shaped the rest of his life. But it was Yen’s life, too.

He doesn’t want to think about the moment the spell broke, but it comes back without prompting. One moment, an absolute certainty that he loved Yen, that they belonged together, and the next, nothing. He tried to lie his way out of it, but Yen always had a knack for calling his bullshit, and she left before Geralt could see her cry. The trek down the mountain was cold, and if he cried while he walked, no one had to know. Both of them lost something that day, but later on they managed to salvage at least scraps of mutual respect and friendship.

Geralt stares at the kitchen floor for what feels like an eternity. To think that he would make it to this age before he is confronted with what checks most boxes on the list of a normal tumble into something romantic. Sure, Regis is male and used to be an immortal vampire, but now he is a man who lives with Geralt, and whom he wants to bed so badly his hands start shaking at the thought. 

If it ended there, Geralt could call it a day and feel like he knows what the hell he is doing, but no; he wants to have something...domestic. He wants to be close to Regis, physically and mentally. He wants to know Regis’ hopes and fears now that his life has been turned upside down, and he wants to care for him. It sounds so clichéd, but there really isn’t getting away from the glaring truth.

Thinking about reciprocity is scary. Witchers do feel fear, and apparently they are capable of being frightened by the prospect of a failed romance. So far it seems like Regis is on the same page as him about all this, but Geralt knows a real talk is looming ahead of them. 

Whether that happens before or after he bends Regis over his writing desk remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just. Look at this disaster.


	7. Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale), [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Vision**

/ˈvɪʒ(ə)n/

_ Noun; the faculty or state of being able to see; the ability to think about or plan the future with imagination or wisdom. _

Regis is delighted to notice how some things don’t change. He is still able to sink into a book, be it theory or prose, and forget about his surroundings and time. Now his body actually does him a favor by reminding him of basic things like food and bathroom breaks. In the past those were optional, and after you get lost in a theorem for a solid week, returning to normal life is unpleasant.

He fills the following days with research and literature. Geralt’s study is still chaotic, and Regis starts to work his way through the tomes and maps, wiping dust off the less used ones as he goes, and trying to come up with a system to sort them. He thinks that if he has a good plan to present to Geralt, the witcher will let him reorganize the room in the future. Theoretically.

The alchemist in him awakens when Regis stumbles upon an old, crumbling diary scribbled cover to cover with recipes and formulas. An almost violent twinge of adoration goes through him when he realizes it’s an old notebook of Geralt’s; he can recognize the handwriting, slanting and uneven as it is even nowadays. The book looks like it hasn’t been used in decades, but it is clearly something Geralt carried with him throughout the years.

“Yeah,” the witcher laughs when Regis presents the battered item to him. “Vesemir told me my memory is shit, so before I went out on the Path for the first time I wrote down all the recipes I thought I’d need. Didn’t get a lot of use after the first few months, but it has sentimental value.”

Regis smiles at Geralt and kisses the top of his head before returning to the study. He leafs through the notebook and tries to imagine Geralt as a young man, hair still showing some of its original copper among the mutation-induced white, poring over old books in a drafty room of Kaer Morhen and scribbling down notes.

Regis starts copying out the recipes, because he wants to experiment with the witcher potions and oils when he has the spare time, and accidentally destroying the notebook would be akin to burning an old piece of art. Geralt wouldn’t be angry for something like that, but Regis would never forgive himself.

They quickly develop a habit of spending quiet time together in the evenings, provided Geralt isn’t off on a contract, or Regis isn’t needed for his medical skills somewhere. Aside from the folks of Corvo Bianco, people from the neighboring farms and vineyards have apparently received the word that the estate is once again housing a physician, and one who doesn’t sneer at treating smallfolk at that. 

Regis doesn’t mind getting called out to aid with fevers, small procedures, and even assisting in matters of childbirth. He likes to feel needed just as much as the next person, and no longer having to hide his claws and fangs makes chatting and being friendly easier. Accepting coin for his services is hard at first, but then he resolves to use it to pull his own weight.

The people habiting the surroundings of Corvo Bianco are also ripe with gossip, and in no time at all Regis is almost uncomfortably familiar with the local social life and its many tangles.

He isn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified by the rumors that touch Geralt. A witcher of the wolf school is an uncommon sight in Toussaint, and one deciding to settle permanently into the Sansretour Valley and to dapple in winemaking, even more so. The locals are curious beyond all reason, and after it becomes common knowledge that Regis is a close friend of his, there is no end to the questions.

An alarming number of them are about Geralt’s love life; whether he is still involved with the sorceress from all master Dandelion’s ballads, and if the rumors about the legendary witcher stamina are true. Regis mentally divides the inquirers into three categories: the curious, the jealous, and the desirous. He refuses to talk about Geralt’s private matters, but that only seems to delight most people pestering him.

Regis realizes his thoughts are drifting to the questions he often thinks about when the book he is reading threatens to slip from his fingers. It’s a normal early evening, and he and Geralt have both buried themselves under a mountain of research; the witcher about local burial mounds, Regis about mycology and Toussaintous late-autumn curiosities. Sonja found the book collecting dust when she visited Beauclair earlier the same week, and brought it to him.

Regis was at a loss of words when the seamstress handed the book to him, but then it connected; he was being treated like a _ friend_. That word was so loaded inside his head, and linking it to Sonja’s easy smile and the accompanying invitation for tea felt jarring at first. Up until now, being friends with anyone was always dramatic, intertwined with danger. This is mundane, and learning to appreciate it brings his pulse down.

Thinking about the loss of the bond is still hurting, but Regis hopes he will be able to uproot and heal that pain someday. He keeps wondering where Dettlaff is, and whether he noticed the bond was gone. There isn’t anything he can do about it, because as Regis told Geralt, finding a higher vampire who doesn’t want to be found is impossible.

His thoughts are wandering, but there is also a faint headache building right behind his eyes. Regis has noticed that reading for extended periods of time makes his eyes feel like there is sand in them, and he needs to make sure to light enough candles as the natural light fades; a few proper, head-splitting migraines taught him how important proper illumination is.

“You do that a lot,” Geralt says and pulls Regis up from the book he is trying to read.

“Hm?”

“When you’re reading,” Geralt clarifies, “you squint and move the book back and forth.”

“I do?” Regis asks, just as Barnabas-Basil walks in. 

“Master Geralt, the delivery of the new casks arrived,” he says.

“Now?” Geralt groans. “They were supposed to come tomorrow at the earliest.” He sighs and puts down the maps he was copying. “Fine. I’ll go see the guy.”

He leaves the room, but Barnabas-Basil lingers in the doorway.

“Pardon me, Regis, but I couldn’t help but overhear what master Geralt asked you,” he says. Regis is happy to hear he finally dropped the ‘master’ when talking to him. “Is there a chance you need reading glasses?”

Regis blinks. The thought never occurred to him. The majordomo smiles.

“I have taken note that you often move the book slightly further away when you read,” he goes on. “I used to do the exact same thing before it turned out I needed eyeglasses to fix my sight.”

“I’ve never noticed it before,” Regis says honestly. The thought doesn’t sit right with him, but he tries to hide the discomfort.

“If you’d like, I have an old pair I used before it turned out my eyesight is as poor when looking far as it is with things close by,” Barnabas-Basil says and gestures at his glasses. “I could retrieve them for you, let you see if they help.”

Regis almost says no, but then he halts. Whether he likes it or not, his body is that of a human male in his forties. These small things, realities of being a soul inhabiting an imperfect body, will become ever more apparent as time passes him by. He is so used to being a rock stuck in the stream as water flows past, but now he is floating with the current, and it won’t matter how much he struggles against the pull.

“That is kind of you,” Regis says, forcing a smile. 

The majordomo nods and departs, only to return a moment later with a small leather pouch. He hands it to Regis, and when he carefully peels it open, intricately crafted glasses slide out. They have no temples attached to them, but the small pads that hold them on the bridge of your nose look well-made.

“Getting used to them might take a moment,” Barnabas-Basil explains. “But as I have no need for them, I’d be glad to let you have them, provided they fit.”

“Thank you,” Regis says. This time his smile is genuine, and Geralt’s majordomo bows his head before he leaves. For some reason Regis thinks the man could guess he wants to be alone when he tries the glasses on.

Balancing the glasses on his nose takes a moment, but when he finds a good position they stop sliding and getting crooked. He takes a moment to just look through the lenses at nothing in particular. After a while his eyes stop feeling like they’re stumbling over themselves.

When Regis looks at the book again, he notices that Barnabas-Basil guessed right; the letters that swam and trembled if he tried to hold the book at a comfortable distance stay still, and he doesn’t feel like his depth perception is so skewed anymore. With a sigh, Regis adds reading glasses to the list of adjustments he apparently has to live with. He resumes reading, and despite the discomfort of having to use a visual aid, not having to squint is pleasant.

Geralt comes back through the open door, grumbling under his breath. He sits down and picks up the map, but then he stills. When no movement follows, Regis looks up. The witcher is staring at him, mouth hanging open.

“Is something wrong?” Regis asks. He puts the book down and stretches. He likes sitting with one leg bent under himself, but forgetting to move makes his joints ache.

“Your— Where did the glasses come from?” Geralt asks.

Regis’ neck gets hot. Feeling self-conscious is something he remembers from his youth, and it’s not something he missed.

“Your majordomo had a spare pair,” Regis says. He forces his voice to stay even, because this is Geralt: he won’t judge Regis for needing glasses. “He let me borrow them.”

Geralt gets to his feet and walks to where Regis is sitting. He leans down, until their faces are close together. Regis’ stomach swoops, because they have not kissed again after the time at the stables; the past days have been wrought with comfortable tension making the air electric when they’re in the same room.

“I like them,” Geralt says. He smiles, and Regis scoffs as he looks away.

“Laugh all you want.” 

Warm, calloused fingers brush his cheek, and when Regis forces himself to look up, Geralt’s smile is softer.

“I mean that.” His voice is low and intimate. Before Regis can prevent himself, his gaze drops to the witcher’s mouth, to the delicious curve of his full bottom lip.

Geralt draws in a quiet breath, and then he leans closer. Their lips brush, and even when the angle is awkward, Geralt bent by his waist and Regis craning his neck up from where he is sitting, it is perfect. The kiss grows slowly; first it’s just a press of lips, and then there is a hint of movement when Regis’ breath comes stumbling out.

Geralt cups his cheek with more certainty and kisses Regis, tongue teasing just enough to make Regis chase it, trying and failing to gain the upper hand. There is no warning when Geralt presses him against the backrest of the chair Regis was lounging in, and then his tongue delves into Regis’ mouth, stealing the last sensible thoughts. 

Regis loses track of time, but suddenly Geralt pulls away. He straightens up, glances at the door and winks at him. Regis has just enough time to close his mouth when soft footsteps draw close and Marlene peeks her head through the open door.

“We’re leaving now,” she says. She looks at them both—Geralt once again looking at the maps, Regis blinking owlishly—and smiles. “Dinner is in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Marlene. Have a good evening,” Geralt says. Regis envies how even his voice sounds.

The dinner is a normal affair, but Regis’ mind keeps playing the kiss over and over in his head. Geralt said he wanted to do this right, but Regis is unsure what that means. There is no need for a courtship, because they know each other so well, and both of them want the same things. Regis tries to imagine what an actual relationship with Geralt would be like, and a pleasant shiver makes him flex his toes; it might be something both of them are equally new to, now that he thinks of it.

“Something on your mind?” Geralt asks when Regis once again goes quiet and forgets to blink. He looks up from his empty plate and takes in Geralt’s easy posture, the rolled up sleeves revealing scarred, slightly tanned forearms, and the teasing expression. Regis wants to roll his eyes, but two can play at this game.

“Yes.” The word slips out every bit as meaningful as he hoped for, and Geralt’s eyes narrow. There is a long silence, and then the witcher stands up and circles the table. Regis looks up but remains seated, until Geralt extends his hand.

“Come with me?” he asks.

Regis doesn’t have to think about it. He is on his feet before his mind fully catches up, and then he feels a blush work its way onto his face when Geralt’s smile widens. Geralt takes his hand and walks him to the bedroom. Just holding his hand like this feels monumental, because they’re stopping the guesswork and doing this together.

Geralt nudges the door closed and pulls him closer. His arms are safe and strong around Regis.

“You sure about this?” Geralt asks. He is so warm, and Regis soaks up the experience of being pressed against him for a while before answering. 

“Yes,” he says again. Geralt hugs him closer, and Regis feels the witcher bury his nose into his unruly hair. He has half a thought to ask Geralt what he can smell. He presses his own cheek against Geralt’s chest. The slow, even rhythm of Geralt’s heart is surprisingly familiar, and hearing it now puts him at ease.

Geralt draws in a breath, as if to ask something, but then he remains silent. Regis decides to wait, because being held like this is new and he likes it. He hopes that Geralt finds it enjoyable, too.

“Why me?” Geralt finally asks. It’s not a serious tone per se, but his voice is curious. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but for the first time in your life you’d be free to pick anyone.”

Regis smiles. It’s a question he has asked himself many times, even before he became human. Why Geralt, who is for all intents and purposes a terrible match for almost anyone? Witchers have a certain reputation, and they might die on any given day if they’re unlucky.

“You know me,” Regis says. “And you trusted me even when I was dangerous.”

It’s not the whole truth, not even close, but for now it seems to satisfy Geralt. When Regis tilts his head up, Geralt is smiling again.

“You have to tell me if I do something you don’t like,” he says. His hands stroke up and down Regis’ back, and even through his shirt the touch sends his blood rushing. “And I promise I’ll be careful.”

Regis can’t help the snort that escapes. “I’m not so easy to break.”

“No,” Geralt agrees with a shrug, “but I’m hoping this won’t be a one-time thing.” He says it so easily, like he has thought through this bit as well, and hearing it makes Regis flush with pleasure. He has nothing against casual flings and most of his previous trysts have been exactly that, but with Geralt the potential runs much deeper. Regis knows how he feels about Geralt, even if naming and speaking the intent aloud is still something he shies from.

“I can agree with that,” Regis murmurs, just when Geralt leans closer. At the last second, he veers off, and instead kisses Regis just below his ear, making him shiver.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he whispers. Before Regis can even think about answering, Geralt kisses the same spot again, this time with an open mouth, and he exhales. His hands, which up until now have been resting on Geralt’s waist, climb up his sides. Regis feels the muscles shift under his palms. As Geralt continues pressing kisses down his throat Regis knows right away that he won’t be able to put on any kind of a performance tonight; touching himself in this new body felt different, and this, _ this _feels like something else entirely.

Regis knows he has more experience with sex, but Geralt is not the one getting used to a whole new way of going through the world. Regis slides his hands under Geralt’s white shirt, but apart from stroking and holding on he manages very little; Geralt spends a long while nipping and licking his way up and down Regis’ neck, and that alone leaves him breathless and hard.

Finally he can’t take it anymore, and Geralt kisses him with a laugh, swallowing the moan Regis lets out when their hips collide. It’s heated and still so slow, and in a second of clearer thought Regis pushes Geralt’s shirt up. The witcher throws the shirt somewhere in the direction of the chair, and immediately repays the favor. The skin on skin contact makes him pull Regis into another kiss, this one with more teeth, and Regis slips his hands to Geralt’s ass to grab it.

Geralt grins against his mouth as Regis grinds against him. One hand tangles into Regis’ hair, angling it better for a deeper kiss, and the other slips inside his breeches, skimming the side of his thigh before wandering further. Regis gasps and bucks, and the collision makes him moan again; even through two layers of fabric he can feel Geralt is just as aroused as he is.

“You’re so good,” Geralt murmurs when he pulls away. His eyes roam over Regis’ flushed face, clearly taking in everything. His gaze is so intense it makes Regis squirm. “Gorgeous,” he adds, right when his fingers pluck open the buttons. His hands are immediately there, pushing the cloth away to reveal more skin, and Regis tries to mimic it.

His mind is hazy with how much he wants this, and his fingers are clumsy and awkward as he tries to work open the laces. Geralt chuckles, but before Regis can voice any kind of a protest the witcher turns him and brings them both down to the bed. Regis’ back hits the cool sheets, and Geralt kisses him again, one hand tugging his pants the rest of the way off, the other supporting himself. Regis has a flashing thought to how easy it would be for Geralt to pin him down, but then Geralt kicks his own trousers off and he can only gasp.

Geralt is equally as hard as him, and the feeling of his cock resting against Regis’ makes his hips buck up. Geralt laughs again and Regis manages a weak grin.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks. His free hand grips Regis by the hip, fingers just tight enough to show that Regis is truly the weaker party here. It probably shouldn’t make his whole body hum with sheer want, but maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Pin me down,” Regis says before he can filter his desires in any way. “Whatever else you want to do, just—that.” It comes out needy and breathless, and after a second or two Geralt’s smile turns mischievous. Regis feels his body slowly settle down over his, until their faces are only an inch apart, and he can tell Geralt’s full weight is resting on him. Their cocks are pressed flush together, and Regis can feel himself leaking precome.

“You weren’t lying when you said you don’t mind this,” Geralt whispers, and then he kisses Regis more forcefully. His hands hold his face, and Regis whimpers as he tries to hang on. He wants to just experience it all; he is exactly where he wants to be and he never, ever expected he’d get to have this. Geralt was always the man who defined Regis’ tastes when it came to taking male lovers. Since so few could compare to him, Regis had mostly had sex with women in his past.

Geralt’s kiss leaves him light-headed, and when the witcher pulls back, what he sees appears to delight him immensely. His grin, when it appears, is a hungry thing, laced with something dark.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he breathes. He continues kissing, licking, and biting his way down Regis’ neck and chest. The first time he sucks skin into his mouth and bites, Regis’ answering moan is loud enough to make his eyes go wide. He keeps at it, surely leaving marks as he goes, and Regis tries to keep quiet, but it’s so hard when his entire body is going into a sensory overload.

“C’mon,” Geralt says when he finishes sucking a dark mark to Regis’ hip, “lemme hear you.”

Regis tries to glare at him, but his throat is dry from trying to drag enough air into his lungs, and when Geralt bites the same spot again he yelps, hips trying to buck up; Geralt holds him down, and seeing Regis struggle against his grip makes him bite his lip. Regis catches a glimpse of Geralt’s cock, and that alone tells him he is not the only one enjoying this.

There’s no time to prepare. One moment Geralt is smirking at Regis, and the next he sucks Regis into his mouth. Regis’ hands fly to his hair, and a pleased moan vibrates against his cock right when he realizes his grip isn’t even close to gentle. Regis pants desperately, thighs quivering with pleasure as Geralt works his way down his erection slowly. Another filthy, needy sound tears free when his cock hits the back of Geralt’s throat, and then Geralt sucks, gliding up, and down again, and around that point Regis loses the last of his coherence. 

He is vaguely aware of whimpering as Geralt sucks him, as his hand teases his balls and massages his thigh, his upper body lying half on top of Regis to keep him pinned in place. Regis is edging so close so soon, because having sex with another person feels too raw and new, and the fact that it’s with Geralt makes Regis’ head spin.

“I’m—I’m going to—” he gets out when he feels himself grow stiff and his back tries to arch off the bed. “Geralt, _ please_, I’m going to—”

Geralt forces him down and sucks harder, and Regis comes, chest heaving and mind completely blank, odd little keens slipping out when he tries to breathe and hang on to the edge of sanity. Geralt keeps sucking until his orgasm finally peters out and Regis collapses onto the rumpled sheets, whole body thrumming and tingling, flushed red and sweaty.

Geralt lies down next to him and pulls him closer, and Regis manages to turns around and bury his face into his neck. The white hair tickles his face, and a dull observation flies through Regis’ head; Geralt will have a hell of a time working out the knots Regis’ fingers made. Geralt’s arm curls under his head as his free hand strokes his side and flank, just slow enough to ground him.

When his heartbeat finally gets back to a level that doesn’t resemble a mad gallop, Regis pulls back and drags Geralt into a kiss. He can taste the saltiness of his own cum, and it makes him smile.

“Damn,” Geralt says when they pull apart. There is a giddy, happy expression on his face. “I didn’t know you’d enjoy this so much.”

Regis smiles and looks down. “Sex feels...different. Not better or worse, but it’s not what I’m used to.”

“That so?” Geralt asks, eyes twinkling. Regis laughs, and the witcher pulls a contemplative face. “Wonder what else might feel different,” he says with a grin that borders on a leer, and Regis smacks him weakly.

“Sounds like you have given this some thought,” he quips back, and isn’t even remotely surprised when Geralt just chuckles and nods.

“Yeah. Maybe I have.”

Regis feels Geralt’s erection where it presses against his hip, and a thought occurs to him. He lets his hand drift lower, sliding his fingers down the sweaty skin, until Geralt shivers and bites his lip.

“Anything specific?” Regis murmurs. His hand grips Geralt’s hip and the witcher moves, nudging his cock against his thigh.

“Whatever you feel like,” he says. Regis waits and then Geralt huffs a bit, looking almost embarrassed. “Do you like giving head?”

Regis grins and nods, and he knows he is drawing from his own fantasy when he slides off the bed and kneels on the floor, tugging at Geralt until his legs frame him neatly. His cock is jutting out and flushed, the glans wet with precome. Regis looks up from it, and the expression on Geralt’s face tells him immediately that this might be a daydream they have both had before now.

“Do you want to help me?” Regis asks, still grinning, and the frantic blink Geralt gives as an answer makes him feel playful. He grasps Geralt’s hands and guides them to his hair, and with one last look up he turns his attention back to the task he picked for himself.

Geralt’s hands stay gentle as Regis grips his cock in one hand, but when he licks a long, filthy line up it they immediately fist into his hair. Regis doesn’t even try to stifle the moan that escapes him at the feeling, and then he opens his mouth and slips Geralt’s cock in. The salty taste and how hard he is make his head go hazy again, and Geralt carefully pushing him lower is exactly what he was hoping for.

Geralt is clearly doing his best to listen to what Regis wants, and it’s endearing. The restraint can be felt in how quickly his thighs begin to shiver under Regis’ hands, and Regis knows this time won’t be a long one; they have both been so worked up for this, and the reality of fucking each other is weighing them down.

He starts to suck harder, and every time the grip on his hair loosens Regis makes sure to push a bit lower before coming up, to show Geralt it’s okay to be rougher. It takes a while, but when Regis risks a glance up, Geralt’s mouth falls open. Regis stills for a second and smiles with his eyes, tongue playing with the glans, and then Geralt growls as he pushes his head down. 

The pace picks up, and his fingers grow tight when they move Regis’ head up and down. Geralt’s cock is definitely not the smallest one Regis has sucked and his throat protests, but at the same time he is so blissed out by the feelings and physical sensations he doesn’t give a damn; all that matters is how big Geralt feels in his mouth, and how taut his leg muscles pull when he gets closer and closer to breaking.

“Regis, I’ll—” comes the warning, but Regis just pushes down against the sting of Geralt trying to pull him up. The witcher chokes on the next word and then Regis feels his orgasm hit, the first spurt of cum almost making him gag. He fights it down and keeps sucking, and as Geralt’s fingers finally loosen, he pulls up and swallows the last of it. He looks up, and Geralt has just enough presence of mind to drag Regis into his lap before he collapses onto the bed.

There is a long, easy while of winding down. Geralt doesn’t appear bothered by Regis resting on top of him. His hands stroke idly up and down his back, and Regis breathes in their combined musk; sex, sweat, the lavender scent on the linens. Geralt is still running hot, and even when the room isn’t very warm, Regis doesn’t get cold.

“Definitely hoping you want to do this again,” Geralt finally mumbles. Regis tilts his head up to glance at him, and his answering smile comes without a thought; Geralt’s eyes are tired and warm, and as he pulls Regis into a kiss, it’s lazy and soft. They settle more comfortably onto the bed, but Geralt seems disinclined to let Regis go. Regis snuggles closer, until they are sharing a pillow and looking at each other across the small distance.

“I don’t know what you want out of this,” Geralt says then, with a touch less certainty, “but I’m— It’s not just—” He frowns as he searches for words, and Regis’ chest grows tight. The warmth there has been out of control during sex, but now it threatens to swallow him whole.

“Everything you’d like to give,” Regis says. Maybe it’s a bit blunt, but Regis knows he is not in Geralt’s bed just to have sex. His heart is full of half-formed emotions he needs to sort through, but he knows he wants every single thing Geralt is willing to offer.

“Yeah?” Geralt asks, relaxing again. Regis just nods. “Okay. Same here.”

It’s still not an actual talk about whether they want to be together and commit to each other, but it’s enough for now. Regis lets his eyes slip closed as he basks in the knowledge that both of them are doing this because there is something growing between them, and maybe neither of them knows yet what shape it will take, but it is important and precious nonetheless.

He may be living alone inside his head now, but new kinds of bonds are forming, and he knows he will come to cherish them just as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Dor: WE ARE FINALLY IN SKELLIGE THANK FUCK
> 
> Whoever _dares_ to imply I'm long-winded when writing: you're perfectly right. I have nothing whatsoever to say for myself.


	8. Locate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter was beta'ed by [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes), and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean)?? We just don't know.

**Locate**

/lə(ʊ)ˈkeɪt/

_ Verb; discover the exact place or position of; place within a particular context. _

Geralt wakes up first, on account of being unused to sleeping next to anyone. Regis is still asleep, head buried into a pillow he apparently hogged during the night, breathing softly with his mouth slightly open. He looks so peaceful Geralt goes completely still just to look at him. Aside from looking twenty years younger than what Geralt was used to, there’s this new tranquility in Regis that might take some getting used to. He never saw Regis sleep before.

Regis’ hair is dark and the curls are really starting to show. It’s still a glorious mess after Geralt ran his fingers through it yesterday evening, and the memory makes him flush. It was so clear Regis enjoyed sucking him off, and Geralt’s mind is already trying to conjure up seventeen new scenarios in which he’d like to repeat the experience. The sight of Regis’ lips wrapped around his cock is branded into his memory, and arousal curls inside him.

Regis shifts and exhales, his heartbeat indicating he is going to wake up soon. Geralt pushes the covers aside and starts to stroke Regis’ back; to remind him they fell asleep together, but mostly just because he wants to touch him. Regis’ skin is smooth and sleep-warmed, and after a while he leans into the caress.

“Good morning, Geralt.”

Geralt has always liked Regis’ voice, but this rough, less-articulated drawl makes him swallow. When he looks, Regis’ eyes are barely cracked open, and a lazy smile plays at his lips. Geralt continues stroking, dipping his hand lower under the covers to brush against Regis’ ass. He’s mostly teasing, but when Regis inhales he repeats it, slower.

Regis’ back arches, and when Geralt abandons the pretense and just moves to pet him under the covers, he pushes his ass into it. It’s hypnotizing to watch his eyes fall closed and feel him spread his legs wider. They managed to wash each other before sleep took them, and Regis smells clean and wanting now. The scent mingles with the flowers mixed into the laundry soap.

Geralt traces his fingers along the cleft of Regis’ ass, and gets a sharper exhalation in response. He grins and Regis, when he pries his eyes open, mirrors it.

“I take it you have some ideas, my dear?” he asks. His smile is breathy and teasing, but the endearment that slips out so easily makes Geralt lean down to brush a kiss to Regis’ temple.

“Maybe?” he asks. His fingers dive deeper, brush against thighs and more tender spots, and Regis cants his hips up. Geralt keeps at it, slow brushes of fingertips and just enough pressure to make it feel good, and watches Regis’ face.

There is so much to see. Sleep is still clinging to Regis, and he is all soft angles and gently moving muscle, biting his lip and releasing it whenever Geralt drives his fingers against his balls or brushes against his hole.

“Please,” Regis whispers when the smell of arousal is thick in the air. The word snaps some kind of tension in Geralt’s chest, and he doesn’t wait for permission to turn Regis on his back. He presses Regis down into the mattress and kisses him, deep and slow. Regis’ legs fall open for him to settle between them. As Geralt sits up he spares a glance at the sight in front of him; Regis stretches luxuriously, hands over his head, and his body is flushed and perfect. Fine, dark hair covers his chest, tapering into a trail down his stomach. His cock is dusky pink and hardening, and Geralt remembers how Regis felt yesterday, in his mouth.

“Please,” Regis repeats, this time with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Geralt feels that new, darker side stir. He reaches into a drawer of the nightstand and plucks out a jar that contains the special cream he found by accident. He imagines, just for a while, how that plea might sound when uttered with more desperation. His cock gives a twitch at the thought, and he files it away for later inspection.

Geralt uncorks the small pot and scoops out some of the cream; he has a distinct memory of when he tried it on himself for the first time.

“You sure?” he asks as he rubs his fingers together to warm the ointment. It grows slicker as he works it, the opaqueness fading into faint blue translucence.

“Yes,” Regis says. His hands have comes to rest behind his head and his eyes are starting to look curious when he sees the lubrication. “What is that?”

“A little something I picked up from an elven merchant in the city,” Geralt explains. “You’ll like it.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Regis grins, and it gives Geralt a small pause; he can count the times Regis grinned at him before with the fingers of his right hand, and up until now he always associated the expression with the fangs. Now it’s just a very human look, teasing and delighted.

He realizes he is staring only when the grin softens into an understanding smile and Regis reaches for his free hand. Nothing is said, but their fingers wind together as Geralt remembers what he was doing.

At the first brush of fingers against his hole, Regis squeezes his hand harder. A surprised gasp stumbles out.

“ _ Oh. _ ”

“I know,” Geralt laughs. His fingers circle the puckered opening before slowly sliding one in, and Regis breaths start to come faster.

“It  _ tingles _ ,” he pants, eyes wide and sheer lusty joy making his voice lilt up. Geralt’s heart tugs violently when he looks up from fucking Regis with his fingers and their eyes meet. He is so full of that warm and soft feeling right then, because Regis is sweaty and in his bed, and he is looking at Geralt like he trusts him implicitly.

He releases Regis’ hand to scoop up some more of the cream, and after it warms up he smears it along Regis’ erection. He leaves it be and watches, and a startled, thick gasp punches out a second later.

“Geralt, please,” Regis keens. His hands grab the sheets, and Geralt pushes his fingers deeper. He keeps searching until he finds Regis’ prostate, and then rubs against it.

Regis slams a hand in front of his mouth, but it doesn’t do much to muffle the moan. His eyes stare straight at Geralt, who continues sliding his fingers in and out, trying to hit his sweet spot every time. It looks like it’s working.

“Touch yourself,” Geralt murmurs. Regis’ cock is so hard it stands clean away from his body, begging to be stroked.

“I’m not going to last long if I do.” Regis’ words come out strained and mixed with half-hysterical laughter. Nevertheless, his hand wraps around his erection, and Geralt feels him clench around his fingers.

“Please, fuck me,” Regis says as he very slowly slides his fingers down his cock, spreading the shimmering lube along its length. “I want you so much.”

Geralt stifles a groan. He originally meant to make Regis come like this, but the temptation is too much. He makes quick work of locating the plain oil he keeps in the same drawer and coats himself with it. When he’s done, he looks up to make sure they’re still on the same page with where this is going.

Regis meets his gaze with an open smile. His eyes are so dark they seem bottomless, and he is apparently trying to hold off stroking himself too hard just yet, fingers loosely wrapped around his shaft. Faint tremors run through him.

Geralt positions his cock and then pushes in, as slow as possible, but the tingling, warm cream deals a punch straight to his abdomen; Regis is hot and tight, and he stifles a string of moans and unintelligible words as Geralt settles inside. His eyes go dazed by the time Geralt is fully in.

“Oh dear,” Regis gasps. Geralt has in an idea, and with little effort he gathers Regis’ legs up, until his ass rests on his thighs where he is kneeling. Judging by the frantic look Regis gives him, it’s a good call.

“Fuck me already.” Regis’ voice is needy and his smile grows wider, and Geralt obliges; it’s not like he would be able to resist that sight. He starts to rock into the tight heat, and finally Regis starts to stroke his cock. He clenches around Geralt again, who has to stifle a loud groan.

He fights to keep his pace slow, but watching Regis’ face contort with pleasure as he is fucked is too much. Regis’ hand picks up its pace right when Geralt starts pushing into him harder. Regis breathes in short gasps that stumble out at the heels of nonsensical endearments, and his cock is positively leaking. Geralt knows the tingling will get extremely intense before it starts to fade, and he does his best to focus on getting Regis spectacularly off.

His own orgasm starts to build quickly, but Regis finishes with a low, long moan. He arches off the bed as his cock starts to spurt, coming all over himself as his free hand claws the sheets for something to hold onto. Geralt laughs hoarsely, slowing his pace enough to let Regis finish properly. 

t’s glorious to watch, because Regis just lets go of any and all control; Geralt holds him through it all and wonders how amazing it would be to tease him into a frenzy and take his sweet time getting to this point. His own balls draw tight at the thought.

Regis slumps down with one last shudder and Geralt lowers him down. He stays inside but stops moving. Regis breathes like he has just run to the city and back, and when he opens his eyes they are hazy.

“Come here,” Regis mumbles as he tugs. Geralt settles against the sweat-slick, pliant body, cock throbbing where it’s buried inside, and they kiss. It’s sloppy and Geralt can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine.

“Go on,” Regis says when they part. Some of the former teasing returns to his face. “Come inside me.”

It’s all the endorsement Geralt needs. He resumes fucking Regis, who shivers and clings to him, trying to wrap his legs around Geralt’s waist and when that fails, kissing him again. Regis bites his lip, and Geralt gasps; he is getting close.

“I want to do this again,” Regis whispers, arms tight around his neck and hot breaths brushing Geralt’s ear. “I want you to tie me down and then fuck me slowly, finish inside me without touching me, as many times as you wish to.”

Geralt’s mind summons the mental image and he moans, _ almost there, _ and Regis chuckles when he feels his neck muscles bunch.

“I want you to make me beg for it,” he goes on, clearly knowing what talking dirty is doing to Geralt, “until I just fall apart, and then you finally let me come, but not before you’re happy with me.”

Geralt breaks as he comes, cock throbbing and pulsing and mind aflame with the filthy, delicious fantasy Regis is painting for them. He gasps and shudders. The climax drags the last of the frantic energy out of him, and then he slumps down. He narrowly avoids landing on top of Regis with his full weight as he slips out; he floats in the boneless, blissful state as Regis snuggles closer and strokes his hair.

“Holy fuck,” Geralt finally rasps when his brain starts to receive enough blood for speech to become possible again. He twists his head around enough to peer at Regis. Black eyes meet his, twinkling.

“Indeed,” Regis murmurs. He shifts, and Geralt lets him get up from under him to retrieve a washcloth from the basin. He listens to the sounds of Regis cleaning himself, trying to hear whether he got too rough. There’s just the steady rhythm of their breaths and Regis’ new human heartbeat, slowing down.

Regis returns to the bed and Geralt expects to be handed the washcloth, but he is wrong; Regis cleans him meticulously, without saying a word, until the sweat and cum are gone. Geralt stays quiet, but being cared for like this is new, and he finds he likes it. He makes a mental note of how intimate it feels to be cleaned after sex, to be able to repay the favor later. 

Regis slips back into the bed, and Geralt rolls over. Regis meets his gaze and seems to find what he is looking for, because he crawls straight back into Geralt’s arms. They settle into the post-coital embrace, still quiet, and the part that expects it to become awkward is proven wrong. Geralt continues feeling happy, and Regis is loose and warm. Geralt breathes in the smell of sex and sweat, and Regis chuckles.

“What do you smell?”

“You,” Geralt murmurs into his hair. “You use the same soap as I do.”

“I was wondering if you’d notice.” Regis presses a kiss to his collarbone. “I’m afraid we might have been a bit loud.” His tone is light, but Geralt feels the minute shift under his palms. 

Regis is nervous about this, and really, it’s understandable. The thought of being quiet crossed Geralt’s mind earlier, but it was wiped away the second he saw what Regis looks like when he is aroused out of his mind.

“B-B knows I sometimes fuck men,” Geralt says quietly. It’s vaguely embarrassing to admit to his previous escapades, but he wants to make sure Regis knows he is still safe here. “Please  _ never  _ ask me how he found out, but he is loyal and makes sure the villa is an off-limits place for anyone but us, him, Marlene, and the deaf girl who does most of the cleaning and laundry.”

Regis shakes with laughter as tension leaves his frame. “I can’t promise I won’t ask him,” he answers, and Geralt rolls his eyes even when he knows Regis can’t see it.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks after a short, easy silence. Regis looks him in the eye and shakes his head.

“Not at all.” Geralt can’t sense any lingering tension in the lithe body pressed so close to his own bulk, so he decides to take Regis on his word.

“You said I have spent some time thinking about this, but it’s you who has a whole mental catalogue of ideas,” Geralt points out. He narrows his eyes with a grin, and Regis blushes crimson. He tries to wiggle away, but Geralt hugs him closer and laughs.

“Come on, you can’t spout stuff like that and not elaborate,” he says, kissing Regis’ cheek. He receives an affronted huff as an answer, but finally Regis looks up again. His cheeks are bright red, and the sight makes Geralt’s gut tight. 

He knows there and then he’ll do anything to keep this.

“You said how you didn’t mind being the physically weaker person,” Geralt prompts when Regis stays quiet. “Did you mean dominance and submission type of stuff?” It’s not something he’s personally very familiar with, but the mere idea is enough to make his cock twitch.

“Maybe,” Regis mutters. Geralt waits, and when the silence starts to truly verge on agonizing, Regis snorts. The embarrassment fades.

“Fine, yes,” Regis says. His eyes are very bright. “It’s something that was almost impossible for me earlier, and now it keeps popping up in my head every time I—” he cuts off and Geralt laughs as he drags Regis into a kiss. He gets a hard nip on his bottom lip for his troubles, but there is a comfort in it; their snarking and banter is still there, and it’s easy to fall back to it when everything else about their relationship is changing.

“You want to be dominated?” Geralt asks when they pull back for air. Regis swallows, and his face turns vulnerable when he nods. The warm, possessive feeling inside Geralt’s chest tugs at him, and he starts to pet Regis’ hair to show he is not judging.

“We can work with that,” he says. Regis looks at him with a smile. “I’m not an expert, but I like the idea.”

“I’m glad,” Regis says. His face turns thoughtful. “I’m not sure when it is customary to talk about the serious things in relations like ours, but I’m curious to hear what your thoughts about all this are.”

Geralt thinks about it, but there really isn’t much room for guesswork; his feelings for Regis are expanding and changing, and they definitely encompass other things besides fucking.

“Another thing I’m not an expert in is relationships,” he begins and grins when Regis snorts with laughter, “but as I said, I like you, in and out of bed.” He briefly wonders if it’s too mundane, too blasé, when he is burning up with a confusing bonfire of possessiveness and adoration every time he looks at Regis.

Regis kisses him, just a short press of lips. “I feel the same way about you,” he says in a soft voice. He looks less certain, but stays relaxed. “My track record with relationships is appalling, but if you wanted to treat this as something serious, so would I.”

Regis slips out the word ‘relationship’ carefully, as if he is uncertain how Geralt will feel about such a loaded term, but it does the opposite of what either of them expect; Geralt’s heart calms down and he pulls Regis closer. There are things he has wanted to ask about, and right now it feels like Regis is giving him permission to approach those parts.

“Listen,” Geralt says. The change in his tone makes Regis look at him. “I know this is something that hurts you, but were you and Dettlaff...together?”

There is no use to sugarcoat it. Geralt knows that by bringing this up he makes Regis hurt, but he is feeling so helpless when he doesn’t know the first thing about the bond they shared. As expected, Regis’ face grows tight and closes off.

Geralt waits. He continues stroking Regis’ hair and stays quiet, because he wants to know; he needs to figure out whether he can help somehow, because Regis turned into human to protect him, and lost something indescribably precious in the process.

“Not as you think, no,” Regis says. His voice is very small and controlled. “Calling him brother would be the closest thing humans have that could correspond to the kind of bond we had.”

Geralt hears the past tense and it aches. “That bond’s gone now too, right?”

“Yes.” It’s a small exhalation, but the confirmation makes Regis draw in on himself. Geralt hugs him closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I have no idea what it was like, but if I can do anything to help, please tell me.”

“You are,” Regis says. He looks up and manages a watery smile. “Whatever is happening between us is something I have wanted for a long time. Please don’t doubt that.”

Geralt nods, and after a while Regis calms down and they lie there, close and comfortable.

It fits, he thinks as he strokes the curls that try to tickle his nose. He wants this to be a serious thing, just as much as he wants to help Regis figure his life out. It would appear neither of them know what the hell they are doing, but if they both try to make it work, it’s really the best they can do.

***

Despite what Geralt says, by the time they extract themselves from each other and the bed Regis is getting nervous again. He knows he didn’t manage to stifle his moans while they were fucking, and the thought of getting sneered at and losing the respect of people around him turns his stomach.

It’s not inherent shame—among higher vampires the gender of a partner plays very little role. Regis was always partial to taking female lovers, but that was mostly because his looks appealed to them more than to males. The vampiric ideal of masculinity is surprisingly close to that of humans, most likely due to their forced coexistence in this world, and in that group a slender poet wasn’t the most popular one.

Humans’ way of treating each other is what it is, but the special hatred they show for men who sleep with other men appalls Regis. He had one male lover after his reformation, and the man broke Regis’ heart; not because they didn’t have feelings for each other, but because he had internalized the hatred so deeply he used it to hurt himself.

Regis remembers spending many nights trying to talk him out of the tangle of self-loathing. He tried to show the man that wanting to have sex with other men didn’t make him  _ wrong _ . It was too little and too late; he killed himself after they had been sleeping together for a year, and it was then that Regis first started to leave Dillingen for summers. He mourned his dead lover for a couple of years while he settled to spend summers at Fen Carn, and then resolved to be more careful in the future.

Regis saw Geralt’s eyes linger on him when they first met at Fen Carn. Witchers were a whole another species of beasts, and Regis suspected early on they didn’t adhere to society’s general rules. The two of them becoming friends blurred a lot of the lines Regis had previously thought solid and enduring. The part of him that had life figured out was scrapped first, and many more followed as he grew fond of his human friends. It was new and dangerous, and most of all it was like a breath of fresh air inside the catacomb of his mind. 

Regis had kept his distance from humans after his lover was found dead, but the brashness of his youth had a tendency to surface at the oddest of times. How else could he explain his decision to accompany the witcher on his mad quest to recover his adoptive daughter? 

How does a being who spent almost five centuries walking the earth abandon his life in one night, and do it in a way that risks revealing his true nature to the one man who is stubborn and reckless enough to hunt him down?

Geralt gives him time to dress up alone and gather himself, and Regis appreciates the space. He sneaks into his bedroom to change into fresh clothes, but instead of descending the stairs for breakfast he ends up sitting cross-legged on the floor; the kitten is delighted to claim his lap for herself, and Regis pets her and listens to her purr as he tries to gather his courage.

His feelings for Geralt are changing, but instead of something new and fresh pushing through the soil, he is experiencing what feels like a shape becoming visible through the fog. Now that his life has a deadline, he can allow himself to get attached. It sounds almost naive, he thinks, fingers tracking the patterns in the kitten’s fur. It should be something monumental. One doesn’t lose the rest of their promised eternity and then just hit the ground running, merging into the stream of human life.

But he mourns little for the life he lost. Everything about immortality was always colored by the addiction, and now that he can exist without fearing himself every minute of every day, he is becoming happy. It’s too simple, just like the love he knows he is slowly starting to feel. The only thing he aches for is the bond with Dettlaff, and he knows it is gone. There isn’t a way to get it back, especially when Dettlaff has not sought Regis out.

Regis sighs as he smiles at the kitten, and he desperately hopes Geralt was right about Barnabas-Basil. Despite everything, Regis is growing to be content with the life he has, and he wants to keep it.

“You do need a name,” he tells the kitten. She pays him no mind, just purrs louder as he rubs her head.

When he finally goes downstairs, Marlene greets him with a smile. She is busy peeling potatoes and carrots for a stew, and informs him that Geralt was called away to deal with an archespore at the south end of the estate. Regis sits down to eat. He wonders whether he should apologize, and when he tries to word it in his mind his neck gets hot again. He distantly hears Marlene chatter about the study, how it really ought to be organized again, but his mind is a whirlwind.

“Regis?” Marlene’s voice changes, and Regis forces himself to let go of his troubles to focus on her properly. Her expression is knowing, and Regis fears his face must give away how mortified he is.

“You have nothing to fear here.” Marlene sounds firm. She leans against the wall as she waits for the kettle to boil and Regis forces himself to face her properly. “I am happy for you. Both of you,” she adds.

Regis clears his throat, but the thrice-damned shyness makes him lose the words he is usually able to spin so effortlessly. He knows Geralt has most likely already dealt with Marlene teasing him and Barnabas-Basil asking a few delicately-worded questions, but he can’t summon the peace of mind to appear unaffected. He fears for Geralt and himself.

“This is a home,” Marlene says. The kettle starts to make a sound, but she ignores it. “You know my story. I was a monster. I was cursed for being callous, and I killed too many people while trying to break free. I would never judge Geralt for something like this.”

“I know,” Regis gets out. He hates, hates how strained his voice sounds.

“Mister Foulty respects Geralt,” Marlene goes on. “It is very unusual for the master of the estate to truly consult their majordomo like Geralt does. This is the single place where Barnabas-Basil feels like he is doing something worthwhile. He loves the life he has here, and is ready to protect it.”

Regis nods as he looks down. He trusts Geralt’s judgement; the witcher wouldn’t have lived as long as he did if he wasn’t careful and cunning. The enormity of the debt Regis owes Geralt feels stifling, just then.

“Geralt has a habit of helping people,” he says.

“That he does,” Marlene agrees. Her odd tone makes Regis lift his head before he remembers he is supposed to still feel ashamed of being overheard.

“You seem to think you are somehow taking advantage of our resident witcher by staying here, don’t you?” Marlene shoots the question without a warning. She doesn’t wait for an answer either. “Geralt is the one who started putting Corvo Bianco back together, and he is in charge of a great many things, that is true. But if you think that the witcher alone is behind what you see here, you’re mistaken.”

“I know he has good people around,” Regis says. He doesn’t understand what Marlene is driving at. She snorts.

“Geralt knows, pardon my words, fuck-all about running a vineyard. Without mister Foulty he would have been bankrupt in a year. Witchers are treated as a curiosity in Toussaint, and no one would have traded or cooperated with him in the beginning, had mister Foulty not gone above and beyond to make it work. At first, he did it out of spite, to show that the dead-end job of being assigned to be a witcher’s majordomo would not be the last thing he would do with his life, but that has turned itself around.” Marlene smiles. 

“I didn’t know mister Foulty was assigned here against his will,” Regis says.

“Oh yes.” Marlene makes a face. “The duchess gave the order, but in truth the person behind all this was a former rival of mister Foulty. The man has risen to a rank of some importance in the ducal hierarchy, and currently serves in the bureau of agriculture and winery. I’m sure you can guess how it all happened,” she says and Regis nods.

“But you said Barnabas-Basil is happy here?” he prompts. His curiosity is getting the upper hand in the fight against his shyness.

Marlene smiles wider. For a moment she looks much younger again. “He is. We grew close when he was helping me heal, and he has on many occasions confided in me, saying he’d have never guessed he could enjoy this post. Geralt trusts him as an equal and treats him as such, and it’s not something every majordomo gets.”

Regis smiles. Marlene looks at him.

“I didn’t know what to make of you in the beginning, Regis. Some things from my time as a wight never left me, and I knew right away you weren’t a human. I decided to ignore my gut reaction, because it was so clear Geralt trusts you and cares about you.”

“I’m sorry I never did anything to dissuade that concern,” Regis says. “I was in a very bad place with myself before all  _ this _ ,” he gestures at himself, “happened, and was forced to rely on Geralt.”

Marlene waves her hand. “Pish posh. You were never a danger to any of us. And you seem to think that all you do is take from Geralt without giving anything back.”

Regis bites his lip. Geralt says it is not so, but Regis’ gut is tight with discomfort every time he remembers he is a guest.

“It’s not true, and I hope with time you will see that as well.” Marlene sounds so serious Regis looks up with raised brows.

“Geralt is a loner. He has lived here for almost two years, and in that time you were the only visitor who came more than once. His daughter is a witcher, but she is enjoying her full freedom for the first time in her life; she visits, but those occasions can be counted on one hand. He never talked about it, but one had to be blind to not see how much you being a regular feature in his life meant to him. With everything I know of witchers, he is not used to having anything that lasts.

“He likes to think he is a stoic, mysterious man, but when he brought you in after your transformation, he was on the verge of breaking down. He was so afraid of losing you, and refused to leave the room for sleep until you woke up.” Marlene smiles, but it’s a sad expression. “I thought it would be horrible if you died before he found the courage to tell how he feels about you.”

“What?” Regis blurts out. He knows his eyes have gone wide.

“He kept vigil like one watches over a lover who is in danger of dying,” Marlene says quietly. She is so serious Regis’ protests die before he can voice them.

He has been growing closer with Geralt during the time he has stayed at Corvo Bianco, but already then…?

“You make him happier,” Marlene goes on. “He has a tendency to brood and sulk, but you call him out on some of his worse habits. It’s clear you two have been friends for a long time, but as it became obvious you have feelings for each other, you have really started to bring out the best in him. And he in you,” she adds with another smile.

“I—” Regis begins, but loses the rest of the sentence.

“Your presence makes him take care of himself. Thanks to you, he is calmer and happier, and less inclined to ride out on dangerous contracts at a moment’s notice just because he is feeling aimless and lonely. What do you imagine would happen to the vineyard if its owner got killed fighting one too many of those vampires which are causing trouble again, hm?” Marlene rolls her eyes, but it’s more amused than annoyed. “If we’re lucky, even that hovel he calls his study might get organized one day. And with you here, our workers have a medical professional who treats them like humans and respects them.”

Regis blinks at his hands where they rest limp on his lap. His mind feels very empty, but to his astonishment the weight he has been carrying is lifting, just a bit. Marlene’s words have illustrated their situation to him in a way he had not thought of before. Maybe he has been pulling his weight.

What Marlene said about Geralt feels like an ember inside his head; too hot to touch but impossible to leave alone. The two of them growing closer and more intimate has been confusing and comforting, but Regis has not dared to hope. Even after their talk the very same morning he was still inclined to treat it as something temporal; with potential, but ultimately uncertain.

“In that same vein, do you believe the man of glass has left you alone?” Marlene asks. It surprises Regis, and he shrugs. The thought has cropped up every now and then, but life is busy and normal, and it’s easy to get sucked into it.

“I certainly hope so,” he finally says. “Geralt told me O’Dimm said their business was concluded.”

“But you never know with him,” Marlene fills in, and Regis nods, unease of yet another kind settling into his belly.

A knock on the kitchen door pulls him out of his thoughts. Alpo the smith nods at him when he lands back to reality.

“Greetings,” he says. “Could I trouble you for a minute? My dear sister tried to shoe her horse and got bitten for her troubles.”

Regis is on his feet in an instant. “Of course. Let me get my things. Is she still at the stables?”

“Aye.” Alpo sighs. “About to get bitten again, if I’m not grossly mistaken.”

Regis hears a horse whinnying and stomping its hooves when he walks up to the stables a few minutes later. He lets his eyes adjust to the dim indoors, and then he has to suppress a sigh.

Diana, whom he has met in passing, is trying to get Dawn to keep her front hoof up. The mare is having none of it, stomping and snorting. Diana has a bleeding wound on her bare arm, with clear teeth marks, and Regis sees right away Alpo was correct. Dawn has drawn her ears back, and Regis can see her eye whites flashing as she fights against Diana.

“Come on,” Diana groans, and then she spots Regis. “Lend a hand, master?”

“I’d rather look at your arm, to be honest,” Regis says. He expects Diana to scoff, but she surprises him. With one last groan she steps back from Dawn and slumps down on a bench. Regis circles around the agitated horse and puts his satchel down.

“Why is she so scared?” he asks, nodding at Dawn.

Diana rubs her eyes. She has the same dark hair as Alpo, but otherwise they look nothing like siblings; Alpo is built like a barn, whereas Diana is willowy. Regis knows Diana is mostly in charge of the horses and the stables of Corvo Bianco, and that giving the job to a woman is frowned upon by the neighbors.

“I have no idea,” she says. She flinches away when Regis touches her arm, and then visibly holds herself still when he tries again. Regis winces in sympathy; the teeth marks are bleeding sluggishly, but blunt-force trauma causes deep, aching pain.

“She is never happy to be shod, but this is the first time she is fighting back this much,” Diana explains as Regis digs out gauze and alcohol. He cleans the wounds, and as he does, he notes how stiff Diana is. She doesn’t like to be touched, and she rarely meets his eyes for more than a second. He tries to be quick about his work, because causing distress to another person makes him feel faintly ill.

Once the wound is wrapped, Regis steps back. He looks at Dawn, who is still glaring at them both suspiciously, but has stopped stomping her feet now that no one is trying to touch her. A voice at the door makes him look up.

“Everything okay?” Geralt asks as he walks in. Dawn backs away from him, and Geralt gives her a wide berth; horses generally tolerate witchers, but at the moment Dawn looks ready to bite him, too.

Diana stands up. She doesn’t meet Geralt’s eye, but her voice isn’t hesitant when she speaks. “Dawn is behaving oddly. I was trying to shoe her.”

Geralt frowns. Regis notices he doesn’t look at Diana for more than a cursory glance to see she is unharmed, and then he turns his attention to the mare. He walks to the storage and returns with an apple, and after some coaxing the horse accepts the treat and allows him closer. Regis watches Geralt, who is clearly listening intently and breathing in deep through his nose, and a momentary longing strikes him. In the past he would have been able to help like that, by listening and trying to smell things humans couldn’t.

“Is she in heat?” Geralt asks. He backs away from Dawn and directs his words to Diana, who frowns.

“Could be.” Her voice is thoughtful. “But she’s never behaved like this during her heats, and since I’m not breeding her yet I haven’t been teasing.”

“Odd,” Regis mutters. He knows the bare essentials how breeding horses works, and at the moment they don’t even have a single stallion. There’s just Dawn and three other mares including Roach, and one old gelding who is mostly enjoying his retirement as a teaching horse for the children.

“Give her a few days to settle down,” Geralt says to Diana, who nods and scowls at the floor.

“I was planning on racing this weekend, but without new shoes that can be forgotten,” she sighs. She casts a quick glance at Regis. “Thank you for your help, master.”

“Just ‘Regis’ is enough,” he tells her. He averts his gaze to test a theory, and at the corner of his eye he sees Diana relax a little.

They leave her to tend to the horses, and Geralt gives him a smile.

“You two get along. If you want to ride, I’m sure she’ll let you borrow Dawn again.”

“I’ll think about it,” Regis says. “How did it go with the archespore?”

Geralt makes a face. “The dry weather can’t end soon enough. I think there’s more of their eggs underground, but fuck if I’m going to start digging those out. They explode if you poke them.”

“Mm, yes.” Regis thinks about the book he just read the other day. “And their contents are highly alkaline, if memory serves.”

Geralt asks him something about the ingredients Regis uses in alchemy, and the ensuing discussion carries them all the way to lunchtime, with Regis working in the lab and Geralt loitering near the table and generally being in the way. Regis doesn’t even think about complaining, because he has been craving normalcy like this. He makes a few exasperated sighs for appearances’ sake, but it’s clear Geralt sees right through him. 

Marlene’s words float back to him when Geralt announces he is starving and that Regis needs to eat too. The witcher even goes as far as to steal Regis’ notes, and then lopes out of the underground room without checking if Regis is following him. Lacking his notes he can’t hope to continue working, so Regis blows out the light and wanders out. He finds a smug witcher sitting at the patio with a tray of lunch, his notes nowhere to be seen.

His heart lurches. It’s domestic, something he never thought he’d get, and Regis feels how he falls a little bit more in love.


	9. Cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes) and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Cross**

/krɒs/

_ Verb; go or extend across or to the other side of; pass in an opposite or different direction; intersect. _

_ There is no sound, but Regis knows he is not alone. He is in a house that looks familiar, and he can feel someone else there. The room he is standing in looks like a study, but the walls don’t stay still. There are several portraits pinned to them, and they move. They whisper to him, but he can’t make out the words. _

_ Regis tries to stay unmoving, but it’s impossible; his heart is too loud. His lungs move, drawing in air with a faint hiss before expelling it, and that sound is too much. His body is too alive for him to hear who else is inside the house. _

_ “Hello?” he whispers. His voice sounds flat. _

_ One by one, the portraits go silent. Regis feels dread creep over him as he watches them solidify, stop moving, until they are just lines on paper. His heart is beating out a staccato in his chest, drowning out everything else. When the first portrait catches fire, Regis stumbles back, tries to find a door, but there isn’t one; the room loses its corners and shape as the fire spreads, and he chokes on the smoke— _

“Regis!”

Regis struggles against the hands holding him still until he understands there is no fire. He is tangled up in his sheets and Geralt is looking down at him. His eyes flash in the darkness, pupils huge to let in the light.

Regis falls slack, and Geralt releases him. For a moment, all he can do is breathe. The window is cracked open, and in the cool breeze his skin is slick with nightmare sweat. Goosebumps make the hair on his arms stand up.

“You okay?” Geralt asks. He sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s wearing just a pair of soft pants. Regis turns to his side, towards Geralt, and kicks the covers off. The witcher lays a warm hand against his back.

“A nightmare.” Regis swallows. He still half-expects to smell smoke or hear the eerie whispers of the portraits.

“I figured,” Geralt says. “I woke up and heard you. You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?” Regis isn’t sure if he wants to know, but he likes listening to Geralt’s voice. 

“It was mostly incoherent, but you repeated the word ‘myself’ a lot.” Geralt looks at him. “Was it—was it about the bond?”

Regis nods. He is too tired to feel truly sad. There is just a dull ache that permeates him.

“Yes. I miss it.”

Geralt hesitates, and then he lies down next to him. Regis’ bed isn’t as big as his, but they fit in it when Regis presses closer. He tucks his head below Geralt’s chin and hears his low, resonant heartbeat.

“I wonder if Dettlaff would even recognize me.” The words come out without his permission, and Regis feels Geralt shift. He has not talked about the bond before because it hurt too much, and Regis doesn’t have the words to explain the connection to a human. He just knows that deep down he keeps comparing his relationship with Geralt to the one he shared with Dettlaff, despite all of the ways in which the two don’t match.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Geralt asks carefully. He starts stroking Regis’ hair. 

“I’m not myself anymore, in a sense that matters greatly to my kind.” Regis says. He waits for the pain to become unbearable, but it stays constant. He draws in a deep breath.

“Higher vampires largely regard humans as a sapient species, but fundamentally  _ less. _ It is hard to explain why, but it has to do with how our bodies aren’t fully tied to this world. Being bound to your physical self is seen as something banal.” He feels Geralt inhale, as if to say something, and hastens to add: “I never agreed with these views.”

“So you think Dettlaff would think you’re no longer  _ you _ because you got turned into a human?” Geralt asks. There is an undertow of anger in his voice, and hearing it makes Regis chuckle. It’s a miserable sound.

“In short, yes. There is no precedent to a case like mine.”

“But how could he not recognize you?” Geralt’s voice makes Regis lift his head. He leans on his elbow, and the witcher stares back at him.

“Yeah, you look younger,” he adds. “But you’re still  _ you _ , like you said when I was being a jerk about it. If anything, you’re more you because you’re free from the blood addiction.”

“Most days I feel like that,” Regis says as he lies back down. “I definitely don’t miss the constant pain and fear, and those were always present. Now that they are gone I can do things that were previously impossible, but…” He doesn’t know how to finish.

“I get it,” Geralt sighs. He hugs Regis closer. “It’s a big change.” It sounds like Geralt knows there are bits he can’t understand, and Regis just nods.

There is a faint scratching sound. Geralt turns and peers behind himself, and then Regis hears him chuckle. The witcher reaches down, and a moment later the three-legged kitten steps on Regis’ head as she settles on top of him. Regis snorts and nudges her away from his face, and the cat curls up on his chest, launching into a purr.

“Named her yet?” Geralt asks. He leans his head on his hand and runs a fingers down the cat’s back. She gives a tiny grumble, but doesn’t even open her eyes.

“No,” Regis confesses. “I’m having a hard time allowing myself to get attached to anything.” It’s more honest than he originally meant to be, but Geralt nods. He doesn’t look insulted, even when he must know that what Regis says applies to him as well.

“I keep worrying,” Regis says quietly. “I fear that good things won’t last.”

Geralt nods, and Regis knows the witcher is familiar with that particular anxiety.

“Afraid O’Dimm will come back?” Geralt asks, tucking some hair behind Regis’ ear.

“Yes.” Regis snuggles closer to Geralt, because confessing all this makes him feel like the ground is flaking and crumbling under his feet. He becomes happier by the day, but these persistent worries keep returning. It’s hard to wrench his head out when they cocoon him.

“I don’t think he will,” Geralt says in a low tone. He keeps running his fingers through Regis’ hair. “He said he wouldn’t, and by now he must know that I’d hunt him down if he hurt you.”

Regis’ chest grows tight, because it’s so close to how he is starting to feel about Geralt. He may have always cherished him, but now that they are  _ together, _ it’s completely different. Regis knows the name that feeling demands, and someday soon he will be brave enough to call it what it is.

“If you don’t name the cat, I’m going to come up with something rude,” Geralt muses after a long silence. He grins when Regis glares at him, and somehow the gloom lifts just enough for Regis to settle back into the bed. He closes his eyes and focuses on the cat purring and Geralt dozing next to him, and at some point before sunrise he slips back into sleep.

When he wakes up, the other side of the bed is empty, apart from the cat curled up there. She blinks awake as Regis sits up. Once the cat is done yawning and stretching she jumps down. Regis watches her pad across the room and then vanish through the open door.

It’s late. When he looks outside, it looks closer to noon than morning. His head feels like someone stuffed it full of cotton, but the misery of last night is mostly gone. As he dresses up, he notices a small note on the nightstand. Regis recognizes the scrawl immediately.

_ I had to leave, got a contract. I’ll be back before dark. _

_ Take care. _

_ G. _

He smiles as he dresses and shaves, and when he descends the stairs he notices the house is oddly quiet. There are no noises coming from the kitchen, and when he checks, the room is indeed empty. Regis frowns as he makes himself a meal, and only when he is putting the dishes away it connects; Marlene and Barnabas-Basil are in Beauclair today. They have errands to run, but Regis knows they usually go see a play or listen to music when they make the journey. As it is, they won’t be back until late.

Being alone doesn’t bother him. The nightmare fades into a layer that colors everything but doesn’t prevent him from functioning. He had nothing planned for today, and after some aimless puttering he finds himself in Geralt’s study. He looks at the overflowing bookshelves and haphazardly stacked papers, and his words from the previous night come back to him.

He  _ wants  _ to grow attached. He is falling for Geralt, and there has been no sign that the feeling isn’t mutual. Regis crosses his arms and looks at the floor as he chews his lip. He wants things that last; a home, a profession, friends. Family even, if he ever gets so lucky. 

He keeps expecting things to fall through. It’s unnerving to look at himself and realize he has been living at Corvo Bianco for over two months already, but he is still to settle down. Everyone around him is treating him like someone they welcome to stay, but Regis feels like he is standing in the doorway, not knowing whether he is coming or going. 

And admitting it extends to Geralt is the hardest thing of them all. Regis knows how he feels about the witcher, and that bright, needy, adoring part is refusing to back down; he is falling in love, and what’s more, he wants it to happen. He wants to stay and figure out how to love Geralt. He wants to make home with him, grow old together. It’s frightening, especially when the bond Regis shares with Geralt doesn’t resemble the bond he shared with Dettlaff.

Vampiric bonds are, apart from their metaphysical dimension, physiological things. There are real, physical changes in your brain and body when you bonded. Compared to that, the human way is hard to grasp and define.

Regis lifts his gaze, and then he steps to the closest bookshelf and starts to pull out the books. He doesn’t let himself second-guess or hesitate, just sorts through the books and papers, wipes away dust, and starts to work them into something resembling an order. It’s slow going, the books are in several different languages and some of them are so old they almost fall apart, but Regis keeps going.

He wants to stay. It is the only certain thing he has, so he needs to build on that, no matter how scary it is. He wants to keep Geralt and accept the realities of living as a human, not because he has no choice, but because he is allowed to pick them. No one is saying he broke a law or a moral code with what he did. He is a human now, and he is allowed to look for the good bits in that life.

Regis sinks into an easier state of mind. He loses track of time, because it’s nice to focus on just moving the books and cleaning off dust, without much conscious thought. Some of the books are heavy, and it’s yet another new thing. He has to go dig out a small ladder to reach the two topmost shelves, and once again he really looks at himself.

He is thin and not particularly tall. He can function in daily life with little effort, but only now is he truly figuring out how his physical dimensions limit him. He is able to saddle a horse with no trouble, but he feels the weight he has to move around. He can lift and carry things, hold small children, and fit into the narrow attic space Geralt’s shoulders are too wide for.

When he stands face to face with Geralt, he has to look up, just a little. If he wants to kiss the witcher, he needs to crane his head up or stand on tiptoes. The thought of kissing Geralt makes him smile. He wasted most of the day by sleeping, but maybe it’s not a bad thing. He can wait for Geralt to come back home, and then help him bathe. Hopefully there won’t be any injuries to treat, and they can have dinner together. 

Regis has kept his own room even after they started to have sex, but he decides he wants to sleep next to Geralt tonight.

The deaf girl, Claudia, who does their laundry comes by at some point. She knocks on the doorframe to announce herself, and when Regis looks up from a mountain of parchment, she gives him a big smile. Regis mirrors it, and Claudia looks at the piles with a curious expression. Her brown hair is in a braid. Regis has noticed she prefers trousers to a dress, and often wears suspenders as well. It’s hard to guess her age, but she can’t be much older than nineteen.

Regis has been wondering whether Claudia uses the handspeak. He found a book that listed some basic elements of sign language, but learning visual-manual communication from papers is hard. He decides to give it a try.

“ _ Sorry _ ,” he signs and gestures to the dusty piles.

Claudia’s face brightens. She moves her hands in a few fast motions that Regis doesn’t catch, and then turns thoughtful. After a while she steps closer.

“I-T-S O-K-A-Y,” she signs, forming the letters for every word slow enough for Regis to catch up. Regis smiles and nods.

“I H-A-V-E -B-E-E-N T-R-Y-I-N-G T-O L-E-A-R-N.” It’s tedious to spell out every word, and it illustrates perfectly why sign language isn’t spoken like that. It’s still worth it, because Claudia looks delighted.

“M-Y S-I-S-T-E-R H-E-A-R-S,” she signs. “S-H-E C-A-N T-E-A-C-H Y-O-U.” Suddenly her excited expression falls and she blushes. Regis blinks, and then he understands. She is only working here, and thinks that she is overstepping. It’s a normal reaction, since they have never communicated in any way.

Regis remembers the sign for  _ thank you _ . He signs it with a smile and a nod, and Claudia huffs a laugh. She nods towards the room where they do laundry, and waves goodbye. Regis resumes his work, but there is a bubble of happiness floating inside his chest. It must be lonely when you can’t talk with the vast majority of people. He is curious, because sign language is different from anything he has previously used for communication.

As the afternoon turns towards evening, the air grows heavy. Regis takes a short break just when the sun starts to set, and as he sits on the patio, dark clouds roll in from the west. He watches swallows glide across the yard, and hears the low susurrus of bees as they try to find their way back to the hive before the storm.

It’s odd, he thinks. The world is so full of sounds and smells, but he knows that now he can sense only a fraction of them. It’s just that he doesn’t feel like he is missing anything, even when he objectively knows he is; his senses are full of the gathering storm, smells from the garden and the low rumble of thunder.

Regis closes his eyes. He feels the air pressure; it makes his skin sticky. There is a murmur of headache waking up inside his skull. His hands feel just a little clammy, and the wood is smooth underneath his bare feet. He is aware of the clothes he wears, but they don’t bother him. Cotton feels softer than linen, but he likes both of the textures. His hair is getting too long, and the curls brush the back of his neck when he moves.

Regis has a passing thought, wondering when Geralt will return, when something else shifts. It’s barely there, like a breath drawn in behind him, but it makes him open his eyes and stand so fast the chair topples over.

Red mist billows to the deck. It’s slow and deliberate, and so painfully familiar it punches the breath out from Regis. He watches, unmoving, as it settles and forms. The thunder rumbles, closer now, and daylight fades.

Dettlaff looks exactly like he used to. His black hair is as Regis remembers it. It is as if no time at all has passed. It’s not true, because right then Regis feels more alone than ever. He has never felt so set apart from his kind before.

“ _ What did you do? _ ” 

Dettlaff stares at him. His eyes are pale and cold. The human face he wears is the one Regis knows, but the expression isn’t; Dettlaff has never looked at him like an impostor before.

“Dettlaff,” Regis says. His voice comes out hoarse.

“Answer me,” Dettlaff says. He takes a step closer, and Regis’ brain lights up with a warning signal. It makes no sense. He used to feel safest with Dettlaff.

“I was changed,” Regis says. He tries to form words, but his heart is beating so fast. The flat, cold way Dettlaff is looking at him is too much; it’s too close to what he feared.

“Impossible.” Dettlaff’s brows draw lower. He turns his head, as if listening, and then pins his gaze back on Regis. “You’re lying.”

“No,” Regis breathes. “It’s me. I swear.”

There are no cracks. The bond is gone, and Regis can’t find a way through the icy cold wall Dettlaff has erected between them. It feels almost as unsettling as looking into the mirror for the first time, only this time the reflection feels dangerous.

“What happened?” Dettlaff asks in a darker tone. Regis watches his body language, and can’t help feeling like he is listening for something Regis can no longer hear.

“A demon,” Regis says, “a powerful being found me. He turned me into—this.” He almost chokes on the last bit and then can’t utter the word ‘human.’ It feels too close, and like admitting to something.

Dettlaff’s face darkens still just as the thunder growls overhead. He is silent for a long time, and then closes his eyes briefly. When he looks at Regis again, his expression is pained.

“The bond is gone,” he whispers. The depth of the feeling slams into Regis and he takes half a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice isn’t working. “I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Dettlaff says. Incredulity wars with anger.  _ “No choice?” _

Anger wins, and Dettlaff stalks closer. Regis realizes he is moving away only when his back hits the wall. His heart is hammering, and the rush of blood in his ears is deafening.

“You threw everything away!” Dettlaff growls and slams his hand into the wall next to Regis’ head. His face flickers, and Regis knows it means he is fighting to keep his disguise. “You turned into something else! You might as well have died!” A scrape of claw on wood tells Regis Dettlaff is wrestling with the last of his self-control.

The words are coming from a deep, dark well. Even when Regis no longer has access to the bond and Dettlaff’s mind, he knows where that agony originates; Dettlaff, like Regis, has spent too many years alone. Regis spent months trying to dig that hurt out, but there was never enough time, and then Syanna salted and burned that ground. Now there is no time at all, and Regis must face his brother, whom he abandoned.

“I’m so sorry,” Regis says again. He tries to blink away the tears he can feel forming. “It’s still me, I’m still the same person.” He isn’t sure if he believes the words just then, but it doesn’t matter; Dettlaff doesn’t. His face shifts as a growl rolls out. Right then Regis hears the sound of a horse in full gallop draw closer, and a moment later…

_ “Regis!” _

Roach comes to a sliding stop next to the main door, and Geralt is rushing towards them before Regis understands what is happening. He moves so fast Regis has trouble seeing it. There is a flash of silver and Dettlaff’s warning growl, and then Geralt is almost close enough to lunge, sword in hand and eyes wild.

“Step back,” Geralt barks. His voice is low and full of hatred. Regis has trouble recognizing it.

“Did you do this?” Dettlaff asks. The claws framing Regis’ head sink into the wood, and Geralt’s gaze flickers between them as splinters fall. There is so much fear in his eyes it makes Regis’ breath catch. He is only distantly aware of the way he is panting, how adrenaline makes his hands and feet go numb. His field of vision grows narrow, focusing with a razor-like clarity on Dettlaff and Geralt.  _ He is so afraid. _

“I did this!” Regis gasps.

“Why would you?” Dettlaff snarls. “Who would choose that? How could you ever choose something like this?!” His voice raises, and in a flash the claws are inches from Regis’ face.

It’s a split-second, and Regis isn’t sure what happens. His mind closes off; fear slams into him, and he has never felt anything like it. It is an absolute certainty that he will die, because Regis knows what Dettlaff is capable of. Only distantly Regis feels himself try to shrink away and press against the splintered wood at his back. It must be plain to see how terrified he is.

Dettlaff goes completely still. Sounds come as if from a long tunnel. Geralt’s voice, hoarse with fear, his own heart, a thunderclap. His vision swims. 

Dettlaff stares at Regis like he is only now really seeing what is in front of him. His eyes are huge and so pale blue they look silver in the dimness. Regis isn’t breathing. He will be dead any second now.

Then, just as fast as he moved, Dettlaff swirls away. He materializes away from Regis and slumps against the railing of the patio. The anger leaves him. He looks frightened and nauseous.

Regis’ legs give away. Geralt is there to catch him before he hits the deck. His head spins and he begins to shake, because his human brain was preparing to die, and it is struggling to believe he isn’t currently impaled on razor-sharp claws. The rush of shock is alien and it takes up his whole brain.

“Get out,” Geralt snarls at Dettlaff. He is shaking too, but it’s from animal anger. The witcher wants to attack, and Regis clings to him as he fights towards his senses.

“I chose this!” Regis gasps. The tears are finally slipping out, but he isn’t really crying. His brain is only now starting to catch up to what is happening, and the shock is too much; Dettlaff was ready to kill him.

Dettlaff stares at Regis like he has never seen anything that scares him so much. Regis wants to hit him, but he can only hang on to Geralt as his mind falls apart.

“I chose this because I  _ had no fucking choice! _ ” Regis shouts. His voice breaks, but he is past caring. “You left me! You left me in Nazair, and then you left me again!  _ You  _ shut me out! What was I supposed to do when the addiction got too bad?”

“How could you pick  _ this _ ?” Dettlaff shouts back. He is fighting tooth and nail to hold his disguise in place. Geralt is frozen, and his fingers are digging into Regis’ arm so hard they hurt. It’s distant and doesn’t really register.

“Because I have always chosen him!  _ You almost killed him _ , and you never even acknowledged what it would have meant! You left me alone, and I had no other choice!”

It comes out full of jagged edges and acid, all the anger and hurt Regis has tried to work through. He isn’t sure what they are arguing about anymore because he is so filled with pain he fears he might throw up; Geralt holds him back as he tries to struggle to his feet. His breaths wheeze in his throat, and when he is finally void of the words everything goes very, very still.

Regis tries to blink away the tears and draw in a breath. He feels Geralt at his back, the hard leather edges of his armor digging into his bones where the witcher holds him tight. The thunder is a constant angry beat in the background, threatening to break into storm at any second. 

Dettlaff stares. His mouth is open but no words come. It is as if someone much more powerful than Regis has just hit him, upended his whole world. He looks absolutely frozen, horrified.

And then he is gone.

When Regis’ brain finally catches up he doubles over. The grief punches its way out of him again and he tries to shout, but his voice isn’t up to the task. Geralt holds him as he heaves, and the storm hits them.

_ He is gone. _ Regis knows it in his bones. Dettlaff is gone, and they will never meet again. The rain comes down in sheets and the patio roof does nothing to shelter them. Regis feels his ribcage splinter with the knowledge, crushing his fragile breaths and the heart that keeps beating despite all odds.

A long time passes, or maybe it just feels like an eternity. Regis feels Geralt gather him up, and the next thing he knows they are inside. The storm rages outside, but in the bathing chamber it’s quiet and warm. Regis finally blinks himself back to reality when Geralt sits him down on a low stool.

“Stay there,” Geralt says. They are both soaked, and Regis begins to feel the cold; his body shakes again, but this time it’s not because he is in shock or so angry it’s too much to take. He is just frozen to the bone, and wet all the way to his smallclothes.

There is a big tub at the back of the chamber, and Geralt pours in all hot water Claudia has left to gradually heat up for the next day. Regis watches him numbly, and then allows Geralt to tug away his clothes. The water feels scalding when he is helped into the tub, but he sinks in. Geralt lowers himself into the water and hugs Regis to his chest.

This silence is more quiet. There is the occasional splash of water, the crackle of the fire in the stove, and Geralt’s slow breaths right next to Regis’ ear. Regis tries to understand what happened, but it’s too much. Something has been broken, and there is nothing left in the debris to salvage.

“I’m sorry I was late,” Geralt whispers. His arms are tight around Regis. “I knew something wasn’t right.”

Regis’ head dips back until he is leaning on Geralt with his full weight. He tries to sort through his feelings but there are too many, and all of them feel like broken glass.

“I thought I’d lose you,” Geralt says. Regis opens his eyes when he hears the tone. “I just got you back, and we’re finally—and I thought you’d die,” Geralt forces out.

Regis lets out a broken, desperate sound as he twists around in the tub and kisses Geralt. Geralt gasps into it, hands digging in hard as if to remind himself Regis is alive. They kiss and kiss, touching each other and whispering stray words. It’s the most important thing in the world because Regis knows what Geralt means; he thought he would die. In that flash of horror was all the despair he’d ever felt, because it would have meant losing this.

Much later, when they’re both almost asleep, Geralt kisses the back of Regis’ neck. Regis presses into the embrace and winds his fingers with Geralt’s. The witcher breathes him in.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whispers.

“I won’t.” Regis knows it’s not a promise anyone can make, but he wants to. He wants it more than anything just then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ಥ‿ಥ


	10. Assuage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Here we begin to truly explore the dom/sub dynamics. 
> 
> Beta by [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes) and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Assuage**

/əˈsweɪdʒ/

_ Verb; make (an unpleasant feeling) less intense; satisfy (an appetite or desire). _

Regis sleeps in Geralt’s bed from then on. They don’t talk about it, but when the time for sleep rolls around, Geralt makes sure to look at him; it’s wordless and perfectly understood.

_ Come with me? Stay with me tonight? _

Regis always, always joins him. His feet are cold and he hogs the pillows. Sometimes he talks in his sleep or kicks the covers off, so when Geralt wakes up freezing his ass off in the middle of the night, he finds the former vampire glued to his side. He wouldn’t change a thing.

The first few weeks after the incident are tense. Regis is quiet and withdrawn. He goes about his business, tends to the people of Corvo Bianco, but doesn’t go out of his way to talk to anyone. Instead he attacks Geralt’s study with renewed energy. Geralt means to complain about Regis messing up the room, but then he needs to find a bestiary to check a fact about duskwraiths, and it takes him less than a minute to locate the tome. 

Regis looks at him from the desk, where he is currently cataloguing the different maps of Temeria and Velen, and when Geralt rolls his eyes he smiles. It’s the first real smile since Dettlaff almost killed him, and Geralt forgets all about duskwraiths and his breached sanctuary. Instead he kisses Regis, drags him away from the desk, and pins him against the wall. Regis tries to protest—_it is daytime, Geralt, anyone can walk in_—and then melts into the embrace as Geralt slots a leg between his thighs.

Two weeks after the attack Sonja notices something is wrong with Regis. Geralt listens when the seamstress barges into the study where Regis is holed up and demands his help this instant. Regis gets dragged out of the villa before the barber-surgeon realizes there is no medical emergency, and when he comes back two hours later his shoulders aren’t as tense. He starts leaving the house again after that, and Geralt breathes a silent sigh of relief.

Autumn is coming. Trees are slowly washing orange and yellow, and while winters in Toussaint are nothing compared to Kaedwen, the warmth of summer dilutes until it can only be felt at midday. Geralt spends an afternoon haggling with a sorceress who lives underground in Beauclair, and comes back home with a small metal cage. Regis looks at it with a frown as Geralt rigs the cage into the lab, but then his eyes go wide when a soft, reddish glow starts to emanate from the cage. It warms the drafty room quickly.

“It’s a minor elemental spirit,” Geralt explains. Regis looks up from where he is crouching and peering into the intricate cage. “It agreed to live here for the winter in exchange for lodging. You need to give it some red wine and—” The rest is muffled, because Regis kisses him hard. Geralt lifts him onto the workshop table, kicks the door closed, and if the spirit minds that their fucking gets rather noisy, it doesn’t show it.

***

“How are you doing?”

Regis lifts his gaze from the book. In the glow of the oil lamps, his hair is like a black halo. Geralt built a fire in the fireplace earlier, and the bedroom is warm and cozy. Regis didn’t bother dressing up before crawling into bed after a bath, and Geralt notices where he tanned before autumn came. It’s one small reminder of his humanity. So were the bruises on Regis’ arm the morning following the attack; Geralt had been squeezing him too hard.

“I’m...fine. Surprisingly so,” Regis says. He pushes the reading glasses up when they threaten to slip and slumps lower on the bed. “I was afraid Dettlaff would come back, but I think we have seen the last of him.”

Geralt nods. Trouble with vampires lessened after the incident, so he was inclined to believe the two were somehow linked. Other monsters still crop up, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

“Are you sad about it?” Geralt asks. It’s lame, but that’s the closest he gets to articulating his worry.

“Yes.” Regis puts the book away and hugs his knees to his chest. “But it also put some things into perspective.”

“Such as?”

Regis looks at him and smiles. “I understood that I’m allowed to choose. What is done is done, but I can choose how I want to live from now on. I’m trying to stop comparing the bond to the relationships I have now, because it doesn’t do justice to either.”

Geralt waits. He brushes his hand against Regis’ cheek, and gets another fond smile.

“The bond was implicit. There was a direct link between our emotions. In a way it blurs the sense of self, when it gets intense,” Regis explains slowly. His voice is contemplative. “It is so different from human bonds. There is nothing physical, no mental link to know how the other is feeling.”

“Sorry,” Geralt says with a crooked smile. “We never developed the hive mind.”

Regis snorts, but leans down to brush a kiss to his forehead. “You misunderstand. I think the human way might be better. For me at least.”

“How come?” Geralt tugs Regis down and hugs him closer, until they are sharing a pillow. Regis’ glasses get crooked, but he looks too lazy to put them away.

“Human relations are trust. Just that,” Regis says. He sounds wondering but content. “It all depends on communication. With a bond, it’s easy to get lost in the whirl of emotions. Humans can only be responsible for their own headspaces.”

Geralt nods. It’s fascinating to hear Regis dissect their relative differences, especially now that it seems like he is slowly healing from the worst of what came to pass.

Regis rolls them over and rests his weight against Geralt’s chest. “I trust you,” he says. “I’m trying to trust you more, but if I sometimes hesitate, it’s because this distinction only occurred to me a few weeks ago.”

Geralt smiles. He knows Regis is referring to staying at Corvo Bianco. Everyone else is treating Regis like he has come to stay, but Geralt knows he is hesitating. Less than before, though. Hearing Regis acknowledge that makes him feel more certain, because it implies that Regis is trying to trust in _ them _as well.

Serious talks have been on hold. Geralt remembers the flash of blind panic that tore through him when he thought Regis would die, and in the days that followed he carefully picked that feeling apart. It never really surprised him when he concluded that he had gone and fallen in love with Regis. It was a long time coming, and once he dared to admit it to himself, it was easier to be there for Regis as he grieved.

It is a comfortable kind of love. It made Geralt invite Regis into his bed because he wanted to be there in case of nightmares. Sometimes they talked about what happened, but most of the time they grew closer in a soft, domestic sort of way. Geralt learned that Regis likes vanilla with his coffee and also has no idea how much caffeine is _ too much _. The former vampire learned to brew every witcher potion and oil there was, and when he started to experiment Geralt was happy to take part in the process. It felt like learning all the mundane, trivial, and important things about each other; something they never had time for before.

Regis plays with his witcher medallion. There is a thoughtful smile on his lips. “There is also something else I have been thinking about.” He grins in that particular way he has, and Geralt swallows.

Sex has been great, and there has been plenty of it. Both of them use it to ground themselves, but being in love makes it so much better. Geralt suspects he isn’t alone with his feelings, because sometimes in the middle of them fooling around Regis goes completely still and just watches him, eyes impossibly soft.

“Before all of this, we discussed something,” Regis says. He looks at Geralt over his glasses, and the bastard must know what it does to Geralt. It’s embarrassing to get so attached to an accessory, but Geralt can’t help it; the glasses make Regis look gorgeous.

“You never expressed any particular dislike to taking the dominant role,” Regis murmurs. He must feel Geralt’s cock starting to show interest in the situation. “I have nothing to complain about the things we have been doing, but I thought to bring this up.”

Geralt gives up playing uninterested and slides his hands down Regis’ back and to his ass. His skin is smooth and hot under the covers, and he bites his lip when Geralt squeezes.

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” Geralt grins. “I’ve been thinking about it. Got some ideas.”

“Oh?” Regis asks coyly. Combined with the damned glasses his tone sends Geralt’s blood rushing. They have been much gentler with each other up until now, but maybe neither of them will break if they let out some steam.

He slides his hand back up and very slowly grasps Regis’ hair. It’s the perfect length to do so, and Regis’ mouth opens as Geralt tightens his grip.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks. His voice drops into an intimate drawl. “How do I know if you wanna stop?”

Regis swallows. Geralt feels how quickly he is growing hard.

“Some people use a safeword,” Regis breathes. “It’s, ah, something you wouldn’t say by accident.”

Geralt lets his free hand squeeze Regis’ ass again. It’s very tempting to just go on teasing, because Regis is shivering already, but Geralt wants to make sure they have a way to quit if something goes wrong.

“Celandine,” Regis suddenly says. Geralt raises an eyebrow, and he grins. “I don’t think either of us will find a use for that during sex.”

“Works for me,” Geralt laughs. “What if your mouth is otherwise occupied?”

Regis blushes, and Geralt grins wolfishly. Really, this would be worth it just to watch Regis shudder apart like he does.

“I could tap you,” Regis says. He rolls his hips, and bites back a moan. “Or you can give me something to hold, so I can drop it if I don’t want to continue.”

“You’ve done this before,” Geralt says. He resumes stroking Regis’ ass, dipping his fingers deeper to make him part his legs. Regis obliges as his breathing gets quicker.

“Mm, sort of.” He moves himself enough so that their cocks brush together. “Natanis showed me how to...enjoy things that I had not previously thought of.”

Normally Geralt would probably feel jealous, but now his curiosity sparks. He grips Regis’ hip and grinds up, and Regis’ head falls forward as he moans.

“Look at me,” Geralt tells him. He pulls Regis by his hair until their eyes meet again. Regis is flushed and panting. Geralt feels him pull against his hand, and he can already guess what Regis will tell him.

“Pain and pleasure,” Regis says. He licks his lips. His glasses are in danger of sliding completely down his nose. “We used a crop, a paddle, and sometimes candl—”

Geralt grips his hair harder as he grinds against Regis’ hard cock again, and the words die in a jumble of moans and pants. Geralt grins, because Regis is clinging to him as he tries to remember how words work, and seeing him like that is new and wonderful. He doesn’t know what to think about the pain part yet, but dominance and submission? Sign him the fuck up.

“I see,” he says. 

He has tried to keep from emphasizing their strength difference up until now, but in a second Regis finds himself pinned to the bed as Geralt straddles his chest. He is careful not to crush anything, locking Regis’ arms in place with his shins. Judging by how heavy Regis’ breathing gets, it’s a good call.

Geralt leans forward and cards his fingers through his hair before gripping it again. He plucks out the reading glasses and deposits them on the nightstand. Regis stares up at him, and the curve of his bottom lip begs to be put into good use. Geralt drags his thumb along it.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he rumbles. “You’re going to suck me off. I’m not going to let you touch yourself.”

“And?” Regis asks. His eyes have a dazed look that Geralt finds he loves.

“That’s for me to decide.”

He shuffles closer, and when his cock is within licking distance, Regis’ tongue darts out. He strains against the sting in his scalp, and Geralt holds him down effortlessly. It would be amazing to surge forward and plunge into the heat he knows waits for him, but Regis seems to need this; he breathes heavier as he struggles against Geralt’s weight and grip, trying to reach his cock.

“Please,” Regis says. His voice is as feverish as the rest of him, and Geralt tugs at his hair as he leans closer. Regis seals his lips around the head of his cock and sucks, and a moan vibrates against Geralt.

He holds Regis still, because the sight of him trying to get more of Geralt’s cock into his mouth makes him grow harder and harder. Geralt has always known himself to be assertive, but this is something else. He loves the feeling of Regis begging for more with his body; the knowledge that he can give something like this to Regis is heady and precious.

“Watch the teeth,” Geralt growls when the temptation becomes too much. He changes the angle and pushes deeper. He goes slow, letting Regis adjust, but what he wants to do is fuck Regis’ face. He keeps his grip on the black curls tight so that he can set the pace, and gradually works himself deeper and with a faster tempo.

When he stuffs his whole cock inside Regis’ mouth for the first time without a trace of gentleness, a full-body shudder rocks his lover. Regis almost gags, but his eyes fall closed and he moans as Geralt repeats the motion. After that it gets hazy, because Geralt has known Regis loves giving head, but getting forced to do it at Geralt’s pace undoes him. He tries to push against Geralt’s bulk, but his hands are free and they never tap to signal his wish to stop.

Geralt feels himself getting closer and closer, and he decides to try something. He pushes his cock as deep as he dares, and then goes still. Regis’ eyes fly open. He gags, but the only reaction Geralt gets is a low, longing groan.

“You like this, huh?” Geralt asks. He pulls almost all the way out, and Regis sucks in a breath before Geralt forces him to take it all the way in again. Geralt feels his cock throb madly in response to Regis’ throat constricting, and he knows he won’t last long.

“You like it when I force you to suck me off,” Geralt says. His voice drops into a gravelly, dark tone. He mostly uses it when he needs to intimidate people. “You love to be used like this, love getting your mouth stuffed full of cock, huh?”

Regis has just enough time to manage a nod, and then Geralt grips his hair harder as he pushes in again and comes. Regis whimpers and Geralt pants, mind aflame and head full of dull ringing. He slumps against the headboard of their bed when it peters out, and forces his fist open. As he pulls out from Regis’ mouth, he runs his fingers down his cheek. Regis opens his eyes when he feels it, and the smile he gives is gorgeous; his mouth is spit-slick and filthy, his hair stands up where Geralt hung onto it, and he looks completely stunned.

“You did so well,” Geralt murmurs. He shifts down on the bed to pin Regis down with his whole body. Regis sucks in a breath when Geralt brushes against his cock; it digs into his hip, rock hard and wet with precome. Geralt grins again and kisses Regis. He can taste himself there, and the way Regis’ lips feel hotter than usual makes heat crawl under his skin.

Regis is panting again when he pulls back, and without waiting for anything Geralt reaches for the pile of clothes he deposited next to the bed. He digs out his belt and uses it to secure Regis’ wrists to the bedpost.

“Alright?” he asks when he’s done. Regis tugs at the bindings, but after a few seconds he just laughs and slumps down. His voice is gravelly.

“Yes.”

Geralt straddles Regis’ hips and strokes his hands down his chest. Regis tries to squirm, but Geralt just pushes him into the mattress until he calms down. Then he resumes, teasing Regis’ nipples and pinching them. Doing that makes Regis gasp.

Geralt moves down, bringing his mouth to it too. Earlier Regis grumbled about him leaving marks, but right then Geralt is feeling mischievous and possessive. He sucks on the skin just above Regis’ hipbone, and when he bites, Regis moans again.

“Let me hear you,” Geralt says. He sucks the same spot again, bites, and when he pulls away, a dark purple mark blooms there. Regis looks at him with that hazy expression, and it makes Geralt wonder. How deep into that euphoria could he send Regis?

He keeps at it, leaving a trail of lovebites across Regis’ abdomen and hips, until the temptation gets the better of him. Regis is absolutely leaking, and the smell of his arousal is thick in the air. If there was one thing that would show just how much Regis likes what they’re doing, it’s his cock looking like he is seconds away from coming without being touched once.

Geralt doesn’t waste time. He licks a messy stripe down Regis’ length, and when his hips buck, he moves still lower. He forces Regis’ hips up and licks into him, one hand wrapping around his cock at the same time. He knows Regis won’t last long, so he pushes into it, eating him out with strong, deep strokes of tongue while his hand moves, and in less than a minute Regis moans as he comes, spurting all over himself as his hips twitch. His whole body is shaking under Geralt’s hands, and a sheen of sweat makes him glow in the low light.

Geralt pulls away. He watches Regis with a smile as he tries to catch his breath, and then reaches for the washcloth. He tugs the belt free before gathering Regis closer, and as they both come down from the adrenaline he cleans away the cum and sweat. They have taken up doing this to each other after sex, but right now Geralt feels something different. His head is so full of adoring heat, and he just wants to make sure Regis feels as good as he does.

He throws the cloth back into the basin and curls back into the bed. Regis pulls him closer, and Geralt fishes the blanket up from the floor to drape it over them both. Regis keeps shivering, eyes closed and a small smile on his lips. Geralt hugs him close and strokes his damp hair.

“Hey, you,” Geralt says when Regis finally opens his eyes. The hazy look is still there, but he looks almost coherent. Geralt presses a kiss to his brow. “How’re you feeling?” He is still floating in his own post-orgasmic bliss, but somehow it looks like Regis went much deeper inside his head. He wants to make sure it wasn’t a bad thing.

“Amazing,” Regis rasps. He clears his throat and smiles. “You make my head so quiet.”

“I do?” Geralt doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing, but judging by the boneless ex-vampire sprawled half on top of him, it might be.

Regis nods. He noses Geralt’s collarbone with a tired, easy smile. “When you did that, my head went very silent. Normally it’s so full of thoughts.”

“Not too rough?” Geralt smooths a hand over Regis’ scalp.

“No,” Regis murmurs. “I’m going to feel this, but I like it.”

Regis drifts off very quickly after that, and Geralt blows out the light. He lies in the darkness much longer, trying to sort through his own thoughts.

Somehow he gets what Regis means about his head becoming very quiet. When Geralt was using him, there wasn’t a single thought in his head that didn’t touch what he was currently doing; more importantly, every single brain cell was focused on Regis and making him feel good. Geralt was afraid he got too rough, but he vividly remembers the vigilance with which he watched Regis through it all. Aside from the safeword and other precautions, Geralt would have stopped the second Regis looked like he was in distress.

He relaxes at that. It feels more okay to float in the last traces of the euphoria now, when he has concluded he didn’t lose his head there. He falls asleep to the sound of Regis muttering something in his sleep as he tries to steal the pillows.

***

The first thing Regis feels when he wakes up is the dull, hot ache in his scalp. For a few moments he is confused, but when the memory floats back to him he smiles into the pillow.

“Morning,” comes a drowsy voice from his right. Geralt drags himself closer, still heavy with sleep and positively radiating heat. The fire has died during the night, and the room is cool. Regis moves closer and makes an appreciative hum.

“You just switched your blood addiction to body heat,” Geralt mutters when Regis presses his cold toes against his calf.

“Could be,” Regis agrees. More and more memories are coming back as he wakes up. His throat is sore, but pleasantly so. The best thing is the lingering slowness; his thoughts and emotions feel more manageable, because Geralt wiped his head clean last night.

“You’re practically purring,” Geralt chuckles when Regis snuggles against his side.

“I feel good,” Regis says quietly. “You made me feel good.” He leaves it at that, but the implied question hangs in the air.

_ Can we do it again? _

“I’m glad,” Geralt says. He cards his fingers through Regis’ hair, and the residual pain makes Regis suck in a breath. Heat curls low in his belly.

“Still hurting?” Geralt asks.

“Some.” Regis meets his eye and smiles to show it’s not a bad thing. Geralt doesn’t look alarmed. There is a thoughtful air to him.

“What did you mean when you talked about pain and pleasure?” he asks.

Regis thinks back to his sessions with Natanis. They bring a smile to his face. It feels like such a long time ago now; a decade used to feel like much less.

“Just that. Inflicting pain and receiving it releases huge amounts of adrenaline and endorphins.”

“And you want to receive pain.” It’s not a question, but Regis nods anyway. He wants to be as plain as he can with this. 

“Why?” Geralt asks. His brows are furrowed.

Regis searches for an answer he knows he doesn’t fully have. He couldn’t find it with Natanis, and he doubts it will reveal itself now either.

“I enjoy it,” he says. “When I get to decide how and when it happens, it makes me feel good.” He looks at Geralt, who is smiling again. “I don’t know why, but it’s...liberating, in a way.”

“Huh.” Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead. “I have to think about it.”

“Did you like what we did yesterday?” Regis asks.

“Yeah,” Geralt laughs. The tension bleeds out and he looks at Regis warmly. “I did.”

“And you liked pulling my hair,” Regis asks. He grins when Geralt looks away.

“Yeah,” the witcher says. “_ You _ liked it, so…”

“Just because of that?” Regis prods. He wants to know where they stand in this regard, just to avoid any misunderstandings.

Geralt is quiet for a while. Then he heaves a sigh and hugs Regis close.

“You’re nosy, you know that?”

“One of my finer qualities,” Regis agrees. This close, Geralt smells good and safe. Regis feels cared for every time the witcher holds him like this. It’s a new feeling and he likes it.

“Fine, I guess I got off on that.” Geralt sounds a bit grudging. “My head’s having a hard time believing you’re no longer able to kick my ass six ways to Sunday, and for some reason getting real reminders of that makes me...feel some stuff.”

Regis smiles to himself. That’s enough for now. He’ll give Geralt time to figure out how he wants to go about this. It sounds promising. 

He pulls back and looks down at Geralt. The witcher is once again completely unbothered by Regis resting most of his body weight on his chest, and Regis gets what Geralt meant by these reminders; he feels like that, too.

This is also the closest either of them have come to voicing their thoughts about feelings. Thus far they have agreed to be together, but without a definite name. The few discussions they’ve had have been intimate, but still circling around what is at the core.

Regis just knows that his chest aches everytime he looks at Geralt. It’s a good ache, the kind that makes it easier to ignore the uncertainties that plague him. It makes him want to put down his bags and stay. He wants to care for Geralt. After last night, Regis feels more certain. There isn’t anything of substance Geralt doesn’t know about him any longer, and nothing has made him turn away yet.

Regis is in love, to put it simply.

“Geralt?” he says. The witcher looks at him. His brows creep up by the change in Regis’ tone.

“I—” Regis begins, swallowing. “You’re very dear to me.” It’s not exactly what he wanted to say. Regis hopes his stuttering and expression deliver the rest of the message.

Geralt’s face turns more vulnerable at his words. He smiles and cups Regis’ cheek. 

“Likewise.”

It feels like they’re thinking about the same thing. Regis rests his head on Geralt’s chest and listens to his heartbeat until his witcher-shaped pillow announces he is hungry and that Regis ought to eat, too.

***

####  **Interlude; Sonja**

Emiel Regis, the man introduced himself. He looked like he was about to go on, as if he had yet more names, but then he just smiled. It was an odd smile, with pursed lips. Sonja saw it many times at the beginning of their friendship. Gradually it was replaced by a more open one, and she concluded she liked that one much better. It lacked the unconscious tension.

She had not expected to befriend the barber-surgeon. She’d seen him a few times before, coming and going, usually late in the evening. She was certain something bad happened to him in August, because suddenly the elusive man was replaced by one who stayed at the vineyard. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like Regis started to look younger. She discarded the odd thought as it became apparent that the man was one of the kindest people she’d ever met. Books and covers, she thought, and that was that.

The majordomo had explained to all of the staff that the witcher was a private man and wanted to keep his home safe, yet the barber-surgeon came and went as he pleased. The staff gossiped about Regis madly in the beginning, because apart from the witcher’s daughter, Cirilla, no guests had stayed at the villa. The gossip died down as quick as it started, because Regis turned out to be just as kind to everyone. Sonja was surprised to hear even the smith’s reclusive sister, Diana, chatted with him when they ran into each other.

Sonja quickly found out Regis held the witcher in supremely high regard, and vice versa. One didn’t have to look very close to see the two of them knew each other well. Geralt of Rivia, the famous white wolf, was a genuine, friendly man, but there was always a barrier between him and the rest of them. Sonja suspected it was simply an instinct, born out of being an outcast and a witcher. Their caste was dying away, and in Toussaint they mostly saw men and women from the viper school. 

But with Regis, Geralt lost that barrier. The witcher was also worried about Regis for a reason Sonja suspected had to do with the barber-surgeon staying with him; Sonja saw Geralt watch Regis with a frown on many occasions. It’s wasn’t an unhappy expression, just conflicted and thoughtful at the same time.

Regis told Sonja he was a barber-surgeon by trade. In reality, he could well have claimed to be a physician or a professor. Sonja was from a middle class family, and had gone to school before life took her away from her home. She knew how to read and gladly spent her spare coin on books. She thought herself well-read, but after conversing with Regis she started to reevaluate her self-assessment. Regis spoke several languages, and there didn’t seem to be a topic he didn’t know something about. Their tea time conversations often started in one place and ended somewhere else entirely.

She briefly entertained the thought of trying her hand in seducing Regis, but the first time he saw the man sitting down on the patio with the witcher made her scrap the idea. It was towards the end of August. Geralt was talking about a contract he had completed the day before, most likely exaggerating if Regis’ laughter was anything to go by. Sonja remembered stalling; Regis was watching Geralt like he was recounting reasons not to kiss the man in his head and slowly losing the battle. It was such an open, adoring look, and Sonja knew Regis was in love.

She was worried. Some men loved other men, just as some women loved women. That was not her business, but she worried; what if the witcher didn’t know? What if he wouldn’t approve? People said all sorts of things about witchers, but Sonja didn’t believe half of those rumors. Geralt was a decent man if she ever met one. She just hoped Regis wouldn’t lose his closest friend because he had fallen for him.

She kept a keen eye on Regis, but her worries turned out to be futile. One evening she was returning from visiting a friend, and a light in the stables caught her attention. She almost walked in, and then turned around on light feet and crept away, with her face on fire.

The witcher was kissing Regis, both of them completely lost in each other, clearly just returned from their trip to Beauclair. Sonja laid her worries to rest after that, because as the autumn progressed, she noticed there was no longer a light in the guest bedroom window most evenings. Outward nothing changed, but sometimes she saw Regis looking around himself like he was struggling to believe where he was. Occasionally melancholy made him quiet, but even then he was glad to come visit and let Sonja fill the silence with her chatter.

***

She was surprised when Claudia brought her sister Vanessa to visit her. It was gloomiest bit of November, the veritable underbelly of the autumn, but both of the girls looked cheerful.

“Hello dear ones,” Sonja said. She signed the greeting to Claudia, who hugged her. Sonja knew enough of the handspeak to be able to follow conversations and communicate with her niece. She was the person who had recommended Claudia to Barnabas-Basil a year ago.

“Hello, aunt. How’s life treating you?” Vanessa looked a lot like her older sister, but where Claudia preferred to wear trousers, she loved dresses and frills.

“No complaints. How are your studies?” Sonja asked as she started to make tea. Rain was spattering against the windows, and she was curious to hear the reason for Vanessa’s visit. 

“Eh. So and so,” Vanessa said. Claudia nudged her, and Vanessa translated the question. It made the deaf girl sigh.

“ _ She is doing well, _ ” Claudia signed. “ _ She is tutoring kids already. _ ”

“That’s amazing,” Sonja said. “ _ Everything alright with your job? _ ” she signed to Claudia. The girl grinned.

“ _ Yes. Ask what Vanessa is doing here. _ ”

Sonja looked at her younger niece, who was looking very satisfied with herself. 

“The doctor who lives here wants to learn sign language.”

The first reaction was a fond warmth spreading through Sonja’s chest. She thought of Regis, and how hearing this didn’t surprise her at all.

“Does he now?” she asked.

Claudia nodded, having read her lips. “ _ He knew the alphabet. We talked with them and he said he wants to learn more. _ ”

Vanessa grinned. “He’s quick, I’ll give him that. I’ve been by for a couple of times and I don’t know how he does it, but he’s already able to do short conversations. Today I had to take a carriage here because I brought him all the books and notes I made when I was learning.”

“ _ He’s smart, _ ” Claudia signed. “ _ He said he likes reading. We are going to talk about books. _ ”

Sonja ran her hand down Claudia’s arm. Some people most likely would have wanted to know why a hearing person would go through the trouble of learning sign language just to chat with someone, but Sonja knew better. Regis was simply being himself: intrigued by something he didn’t yet know, and fascinated at the prospect of diving head-first into learning.

Sonja knew Claudia was far from being lonely. Beauclair was a big city, and the deaf community was tight-knit. Her niece was dating a boy she’d met at school, and had friends and acquaintances. Still, the thought of Claudia finding a new person to talk with made Sonja smile. Sign language was fascinating in itself, and she was happy Regis would get to know Claudia better.

Sonja recognized people who had lived hard lives, and Regis was one of them without a doubt. She never asked, because it was not her business to pry. If Regis wanted to tell her who he had been before he came to live at Corvo Bianco, he would. Until then he was just Emiel Regis, a barber-surgeon from Dillingen, and Sonja’s dear friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head, constantly, for the past three months: _facefucking facefucking facefucking facefucking facef_


	11. Transient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl this chapter is one of my favorites.
> 
> Beta by [Josie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes) and [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Transient**

/ˈtranzɪənt/

_ Adjective; lasting only for a short time; impermanent. _

_ Noun; a person who is staying or working in a place for a short time only. _

_ Good things, _ Geralt thinks,  _ generally don’t last. _

He is trying not to hyperventilate. His fists are clenched so tight they hurt, and his ears are stuck playing the last uttered word on a loop.

_ “Celandine.” _

Regis looks at him like one looks at a spooked animal; assessing whether to approach or not. Distantly Geralt thinks that he gets that. He’d be wary too if someone fell apart for no apparent reason. 

“I can’t do this,” Geralt finally rasps. His fist finally opens, and the crop falls to the floor with a soft thud. He can distantly hear the wind howl outside as the first snowstorm of the winter hits the estate.

“I can’t,” he repeats. His head is swimming and he fears he might throw up.

“Alright.” Regis’ voice is soft and gentle. He steps closer and then halts, because Geralt has to turn away. Meeting Regis’ eye is impossible.

“Sorry,” Geralt says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel.

“My dear, you’re breathing too fast,” Regis says in that same tone he uses when he is speaking to scared children. The endearment rattles its way to Geralt’s core.

He screwed it up. He feared he’d lose control and hurt Regis. Now Regis will know Geralt can’t handle this; now it’s going to crash and burn, like Geralt has waited for it to do all autumn.

He can’t be sure his brain won’t turn him into a monster.

After Dettlaff and everything that followed, a new routine emerged. Geralt dared to trust in it because Regis seemed just as unsure about them as he was, deep down. When neither of them knew where they were headed, they could keep walking. 

Then they tried—this, and the hesitancy just melted away from Regis. Geralt was sure his heart would stop when he thought Regis was going to say he was in love. Technically he did, just not in so many words, and Geralt tried to settle into it. He was happy, and at the same time he was terrified.

_ The greatest love story of the century, _ someone once called what happened to him and Yen. Geralt remembers laughing uncomfortably and leaving as soon as possible. He puked his guts out into a flowerpot right outside the fancy soiree, but what the fuck was he supposed to do? When he asked Yen whether she felt like the spell was influencing her free will, she looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

_ “I am a sorceress, Geralt. A djinn is not able to wipe away my will. I come back to you because the spell makes me see reasons to do so.” _

It was comforting, but now the thought makes him nauseous again. The great romance was a fraud, so what does he think he knows about love in the first place?

It all goes through Geralt’s head in an uncomfortable tumble that drowns out the reality for a short while. When he forces himself back to the present moment, it’s to feel Regis drape the duvet over his shoulders. Regis has put on a shirt and the soft trousers he uses for sleep.

“Come sit down.” His voice is quiet but Geralt recognizes what he calls the doctor tone. It comforts him, even when he feels like the walls could fall down any moment now. They sit down on the bed and Regis leans close. Geralt keeps waiting for him to pull back and tell him that maybe he should go sleep in the upstairs room. 

“Talk to me, please.”

Geralt turns his head without meaning to do so, and Regis looks relieved. His hair is messed up where Geralt ran his fingers through it earlier, and there is a dark lovebite on his collarbone. Nothing else hints that only a few minutes ago they were both hard and desperate. The atmosphere inside their bedroom is like from another reality altogether. 

Regis takes his hand and runs his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles. He realizes they are once more white as snow as he clenches his hands into fists.

“I can’t do this.” He said that already, didn’t he?

“It’s alright,” Regis repeats. His eyes are so worried. Maybe he fears Geralt will go ballistic. He’s just had the chance to settle into a normal life, and up comes a witcher with his head stuffed full of troubles.

“You’re safe,” Regis murmurs. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Geralt says. His breathing is slowing down, some of the witcher instincts kicking in. 

Regis looks baffled. “I know. I meant that you’re safe here.”

Geralt blinks. His hands finally settle down and stop squeezing into fists. Regis presses a kiss to his knuckles. It’s his right hand.

“What happened?”

Geralt closes his eyes. He’s not going to cry, is he?

They have experimented during the autumn. Both of them have enjoyed it, and it’s infrequent enough for both of them to stay intrigued. It’s also not often enough for them to run out of things to do without the pain being brought into play. Until tonight.

Geralt thought he could do it up until the moment he couldn’t. He looked at Regis who trusts him, who almost said he loves Geralt earlier in the autumn, and who chooses to stay with him every single day, and he got so afraid. The dark thing inside his head was too powerful; it would swallow him whole, and the person who stepped out would hurt Regis.

The safeword stumbled out before Geralt fully registered what he was doing. He couldn’t remember feeling anything that close to blind panic, not since he watched Dettlaff almost skewer Regis with his claws. It was the same feeling; what if he’d lose Regis? It would hurt more now, because Geralt was in love and he knew what Regis was like when he was shaking with pleasure and soft with sleep.

“I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you. I fear I won’t know when to stop.”

Saying it aloud makes his insides curl up with shame. Some protector of the weak he is; hand him a crop in the bedroom, and he goes to pieces out of terror.

Shame is a physical feeling. It burns, right at the pit of his stomach. He wants to push his hands through his sternum and dig it out, but he fears it has spread already. It’s in him, it’s him. He’s dangerous.

What he fears is talking about this. Geralt swallows bile when he suddenly remembers Riedbrune and how Cahir looked at him after the fight; there was fear mixed in with respect, and Geralt hated himself. The instinct to be dangerous until the moment of death is carved into witchers, distilled from some monster or another to ensure they go down fighting. It’s meant to override the fleeing response, and Geralt has experienced it enough times to know he hates it.

He hates feeling out of control. Witchers do know fear, and right now Geralt is terrified. He's terrified that the dominating role wakes something up inside him; that it might break the ugly part free and the two—the role and the monster—blend together until he won’t be able to tell them apart.. The feeling has been at the back of his head all autumn, but until now it felt like something he could learn to control.

Geralt forces his eyes open. Regis is waiting. He holds Geralt’s hand and looks worried.

Another thing Geralt dreads: Regis looking at him like he looked at Dettlaff. Geralt had never seen naked, blind fear like that. 

“Alright.” Regis’ tone isn’t what Geralt expects, and he looks up. His vision swims and he has to wipe his eyes. 

“What?” Geralt asks.

“We’ll stop doing that.”

Geralt keeps waiting for the disappointment, but Regis’ expression doesn’t change.

“Stop?” Geralt repeats stupidly.

He waits for the inevitable part where they negotiate and, in the end, argue. He waits for the bit where he has to  _ show  _ the ugly side to Regis so he’ll believe. And that will mark the beginning of the end. 

Instead of making any sense Regis gives a small, sad laugh. 

“Yes, we’ll stop that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

_ Hurt him? _

“I don’t know if I can trust myself with what you want,” Geralt forces out, again. His head is full of rankling sounds that make thinking difficult.

“You said that, and that is why we are not going to do this anymore,” Regis says very slowly. He smiles as he cups Geralt’s cheek. “It’s not the thing that draws me to you. Please believe me.”

Geralt just feels more and more confused. “I just told you I can’t trust myself not to harm you.” His voice grows quieter towards the end.  _ Why _ doesn’t Regis understand?

Instead of finally taking the hint, Regis’ eyes go wide. The look slowly morphs into something between incredulity and exasperation.

“Geralt.” Geralt has never heard Regis sound like that. He has to look at his face to understand it.

“You have never, ever made me feel unsafe,” Regis says. “You have never coerced or forced me to do anything I didn’t want to. I have  _ never  _ had a cause to fear you. Not before I became human, and definitely not after it.”

Regis’ hand is warm against his cheek. It feels like a tether that prevents Geralt from floating away. He hears the words, but they just tumble around his head.

“I understand if you don’t want to stay,” he tells Regis. 

Regis goes pale. He looks so shocked it finally pulls Geralt out of his stupor. He sits up straighter and grips Regis’ hand. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Regis asks. His voice breaks and his lip quivers, and Geralt gets a horrible feeling he has messed everything up. He pulls Regis closer and kisses his forehead.

“No!” his voice is hoarse. Regis’ hands shake where they grip his. “No. Just—you don’t have to be here, if you don’t want to.”

His head feels like he has been underwater too long, and the oxygen is making it swim as he tries to catch his breath.

“I want to.” Regis says. He is looking miserable, and Geralt realizes that he has given Regis the exact wrong impression. It is Geralt who is afraid of losing this because of what happened.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “I want you to stay. But not if you don’t feel safe.”

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t,” Regis says quietly. He looks up from his hands. “If you don’t want to be with me because of this, I understand.” There it is, the fear, but not directed at the thing Geralt thought; Regis turns that knife on himself.

“Never,” Geralt blurts out. His heart is hammering, because this isn’t going how he knows it should. They should be shouting their voices hoarse by now, not be on the verge of tears because both of them feel like they have lost all direction and are about to lose whatever they have together.

“Listen to me,” Geralt says. He gathers Regis closer. “I want you to stay. More than ever.” The sentences come out clipped, but he has to force them out.

Regis sniffs and wipes his eyes as he leans on Geralt. He looks oddly helpless.

Geralt leans in for a kiss, and Regis meets him with a relieved sound. Their hands tremble as they map the edges of that fragile moment. Something new is present, but Geralt doesn’t know what it is. When he pulls back, Regis looks at him for a long time. His brow furrows.

“I love you.”

Geralt’s breath catches. For a second he thinks he blurted out the words, but he sees a familiar stubborn expression on Regis’ face. Then he understand what they mean, and his heart skips at least three beats.

“I wanted to say that earlier,” Regis goes on. His voice is breathless. “I fell in love and I want to stay with you because that feeling just keeps growing.”

Geralt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The fear is back, but it’s different now. He can’t define it, he just knows he is scared to death, and at the same time he wants to make sure Regis never leaves.

“Don’t answer now,” Regis says with a small smile. His hand is back on Geralt’s cheek. “I just wanted you to know that I love you. This won’t make me leave. Unless you ask me to go, I’ll be here.”

Regis must see how the words undo him, because the next moment they’re hugging. Geralt buries his face into Regis’ neck and tries to will his head back under some semblance of control. How is it possible that he is simultaneously happier than ever and feeling a sense of impending doom?

“Let’s go to sleep.” Regis’ voice is so damn gentle. “We can talk about this later.”

“Later” turns out to be the morning after. Geralt wakes up with a head that feels like it weighs a ton. There is a warm body snuggled up to him, and only when Regis opens his eyes just enough to give him a sleepy smile, the terror loosens its claws most of the way.

They miss breakfast. Regis coaxes out most of what made him fall apart the night before. He does it with more grace than Geralt feels he deserves, but the end result is that he goes slack with relief. The only thing they don’t dwell on is the djinn. There is more than enough to sort through.

“Nothing has changed,” Regis tells him when they are done. He is resting against Geralt’s chest. Even though he is thin, his weight feels nice and grounding. Geralt opens his eyes, but continues stroking his hands up and down Regis’ back.

Regis’ smile turns shy. “I’m in love with you. I’m happy with you.”

He says it so easily, and Geralt’s chest goes tight and uncertain. Regis feels his reaction and leans in for a kiss. 

“I love you too,” Geralt murmurs against his lips. The words are too heavy, but he feels like he will burst if he doesn’t get them out. He has been thinking about them every day for months, saying them inside his head every time Regis looks at him and his face lights up. He’s so damned lucky, and Regis deserves to know he is loved and wanted, he deserves to hear it every day for the rest of his life.

Regis shudders. Geralt’s body reacts before his mind gets the chance, and that makes it easier to rock together. It’s slow and gentle, Regis growing hard against him and looking incredulous and happy. Geralt keeps staring at him as they grind against each other, and he knows he made the right call. He wants Regis to know he’s the most important thing in his life.

When their skin gets slick and hot Regis leans over to the nightstand. He leans too far, and Geralt catches him before he stumbles to the floor. Regis straightens with a husky laugh. He uncorks the plain lube and smears it over Geralt’s cock. His hands are warm and familiar, and right then that is the most arousing thing Geralt can think of.

“You feel so good,” Regis says as he crawls forward. Geralt helps him by guiding his cock to where Regis wants it, but then lets Regis do the rest. He holds onto the bony hips as Regis works himself down, face flushed and lip caught between his teeth. There is a teasing glint in his eyes, and Geralt knows Regis is going slow to make it better for them both.

He takes Regis in hand when he bottoms out with a low groan. 

“Look at you,” Geralt murmurs. “Gorgeous.” He isn’t one for fine words, but he is so full of the feeling he has to allow some of it to spill out.

Regis starts to ride him as Geralt works his cock. His chest is slick with sweat, and in the morning light filtering through the curtains he looks incredibly human and real. He keeps smiling and looking straight at Geralt.

“I want you so much,” Geralt says. His voice drops into a low, intimate cadence as pleasure builds. “I have wanted you for so long, and I want to keep you.” 

“You have me,” Regis murmurs. There are no more words after that, apart from stray strings of encouragement, and afterwards they are both happy to lay together. Sweat cools, both of them start to feel sticky, but neither moves for a long time. Regis keeps looking at Geralt like he is precious and worthwhile, and to his astonishment Geralt finds himself wanting to believe that. The thought gives him pause.

He’s messed up, but does it have to be like that for the rest of eternity? Is the ugly side of him carved so deep he can’t reach it? 

He has no idea how to begin untangling the messy knot his mind shies away from, but the idea doesn’t leave him even when they finally get up to start the day. It sits at the back of his head in the following days and weeks. Contrary to what he believes, thinking about it doesn’t make him feel like throwing up. It’s a thing he has little idea how to make sense of, but when his head accidentally turns it into a mystery instead of a monster, he is capable of looking for solutions.

***

Toussaint rarely gets snows that last for more than a day or two, but a cold snap hits them right when December begins its descent towards the end of the year. It snows, and then the white cover refuses to leave as the temperature keeps in the freezing. Children are ecstatic, adults grumble about shoveling snow, and one of the horses almost falls over in the icy yard.

Regis is torn between loving how beautiful everything looks and despising being cold all the time. Whenever he goes outdoors he is forced to bundle up with scarves and mittens, and even wear the red hat Sonja knitted for him. When Geralt saw it for the first time he almost choked on his coffee, and no amount of him apologizing made Regis feel any less self-conscious about it. Still, it beats frostbite.

Regis even goes as far as relocating the elemental heater to the villa. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but Regis notices he moves his research from the loft to the study. The spirit stays happy, accepting cheap red wine and dried figs as a payment for its services, and Regis spends most of the evenings under a duvet, curled up on the chaise longue as he reads or writes.

The cat, no longer a kitten, has apparently decided that the house is her kingdom. She rarely leaves the villa, and Regis gets used to her constant rattling purr as a background noise. He finally named her, and despite what Geralt says, Regis thinks Nova is a good name.

“I’ll be back late,” Geralt says one morning as they have breakfast in the kitchen. “Got a contract in the city, folk say it’s a demon that slinks into houses at night.”

“What do you think it is?” Regis asks. His head feels oddly groggy, like it refuses to wake up properly. 

He blinks and forces himself to listen to Geralt. The witcher has been gradually shedding the unease that plagued him after they decided to abandon the subject of dominance and submission. Seeing him breathe easier makes Regis happy.

Geralt shrugs. “If I’m unlucky, a hym or some such. Gotta prepare for the worst.”

Regis nudges his foot under the table. “Be careful.”

“Yeah,” Geralt smiles. Then he looks at Regis with a faint frown. “Are you okay?”

Regis smiles. “I think I didn’t sleep very well. Nothing to worry about.”

Marlene is suddenly extremely focused on the pot she is stirring when Geralt finishes his breakfast, and the witcher brushes a kiss to his hair before he leaves. Regis stands at the door and watches him ride out, but decides to go back inside afterwards. The day is breathtaking, pale sunlight glittering everywhere, but his body feels rickety and chilled. 

The study is nice and warm, and the chill vanishes once he tucks his feet under a duvet. Nova scrambles her way up the chaise longue and curls up next to him. Regis spends a long time just stroking her, because his brain doesn’t want to focus on the writing task. He has been slowly jotting down some things he lived through, historical events from the point of view of a commoner, but today his thoughts scatter like they’re made of ash.

Nova purrs happily, and Regis smiles. He can’t remember ever feeling so content. Nothing big is happening, but his gut keeps treating it as something passing, even when he knows he likes the idea of non-special days following each other. Life has been hectic, and getting used to the slow pace takes much more time than he initially thought.

Regis leans his head against the backrest. The room is warm and he feels safe. Worry for Geralt is always present whenever the witcher rides out, but it too slips Regis’ attention as his mind drifts. His surroundings grow hazy, and when he slips into sleep, it’s dark and covers everything.

“Regis?”

A familiar voice tugs him towards wakefulness, but yielding to its call feels like a mistake as soon as Regis becomes aware of his body. He is so cold, even when he is still mostly covered by the duvet. His head aches, and when he tries to breathe, he realizes his nose is clogged.

“Are you quite alright?” 

Regis forces his eyes open. Barnabas-Basil looks at him with a frown. 

“I fell asleep,” Regis says and immediately winces. His throat hurts, and his voice sounds odd.

“I think you might be getting sick,” Barnabas-Basil says. “You must have caught what Sonja’s children have.”

“I visited them yesterday,” Regis croaks. The majordomo looks at him with sympathy.

“Go to bed. I’ll ask Marlene to bring you something hot to drink.”

Regis wants to argue, but when he sits up his head feels woozy and chills wrack his body. He feels absolutely horrible, and as he trudges to the bedroom he knows he must be experiencing his first bout of the common cold. Rosie and her brothers were all sniffly and feverish when he visited Sonja, but he didn’t think of taking precautions.

_ One more thing to get used to _ , Regis thinks as he strips off his day clothes. He refuses to feel guilty about stealing one of Geralt’s shirts, because while he can’t smell anything comforting with his nose so backed up, it’s large enough for him to curl up inside it. Regis drags every duvet he can find into the bed, moves the elemental cage to the nightstand, and burrows into the bed. His teeth are chattering and he feels miserable.

Marlene comes in with a tray and hands him a mug of something Regis can’t smell. His sense of taste is off, but the tea is bitter and tastes of lemon and ginger.

“You won’t be getting up for lunch,” she says sternly when Regis chokes the last of the tea down. “Unless you want to spend the next two weeks like this.”

“I feel like death,” Regis says as he lies back down. He refuses to admit he’s sulking, but Marlene looks at him with a raised brow before leaving the room. 

Regis tugs the covers higher, and then he falls into a fitful sleep. His dreams make no sense whatsoever, and he only wakes up sometime in the afternoon to drink more of Marlene’s horrible tea. After that the sleep is deeper and dreamless.

A cold draft and the bed dipping wake him. The room is dim and his throat is so sore speaking feels like the last thing he wants to do. A headache pounds behind his temples.

Geralt looks at him with a smile. There’s snow on his clothes and the cold of the outdoors clings to him. 

“Hey,” he says in a quiet voice. Regis looks around and spots a glass of water on the nightstand. Geralt is quicker and hands it to him, and Regis tries to think of a way he could remain completely under the covers while he drinks. He knows he must be running a fever.

“I thought you looked a bit wilted this morning,” Geralt says once Regis is done with the water and back under the mountain of duvets. “How’re you feeling?”

“Bad,” Regis manages to say. His voice somehow sounds both nasal and rough. Geralt chuckles, but it’s warm. 

“Marlene informed me I have to make you eat something.” 

Regis can name about seventeen things he’d rather do than force food down his sore throat, sleep among the first ten of those, but he knows Geralt is right. It’s what he would prescribe to anyone else.

He sits up when Geralt comes back with a bowl of what looks like chicken soup. He would laugh at the cliche if he wasn’t feeling so miserable. The witcher keeps him company while he forces the food down, talking about a book exhibit in town, and how the centre of Beauclair is in complete chaos because of the snow. 

Regis notices Geralt has something on his mind by the thoughtful look in his eyes, but when he asks, the witcher just smiles.

“Nothing urgent. I’ll tell you when you’re a bit better, alright?”

Regis wants to argue, but Geralt  _ looks  _ at him. It’s a look Regis himself has given to so many of his friends—Geralt, Milva, Cahir, and Sonja among them—and he shuts up. Geralt forces him to swallow a spoonful of something that tastes both disgustingly sweet and acrid, and then Regis falls asleep again.

The next morning dawns grey and wet. Regis mourns the melting snow, but he is feeling marginally better. Geralt wakes up when Regis rolls almost on top of him in search of more body heat.

“Is that my shirt?” Geralt mumbles, one eye cracked open and clearly intending to go right back to sleep as soon as Regis stops bothering him.

“Maybe,” Regis rasps. He dozes off while Geralt pets his hair, and later wakes up to drink yet more of the tea he is growing to despise. Geralt stays with him, because with the glowing elemental the small bedroom is warm and cosy. The witcher alternates between reading some horrible two-crown romance and napping, while Regis tries to find a position that doesn’t feel uncomfortable and sleep his fever off.

When he next wakes up, it’s dark outside. Regis blinks his eyes open. For a while he is disoriented, but then he proceeds to kick off most of the covers. He is drenched in sweat, hair clinging to his forehead and throat parched. 

“Evening,” Geralt says from where he is lounging. “Your fever broke.”

“I noticed,” Regis mutters into his pillow. He feels sticky and gross and still all kinds of horrible, but the constant shivering has at least stopped. The light of the single candle on Geralt’s side of the bed hurts his eyes.

“Will you tell me now what happened in Beauclair?” Regis asks when he concludes death or more sleep won’t grant him relief anytime in the near future.

Geralt laughs. “Ran into someone.” 

He stalls, and then laughs more when Regis levels him a glare. With a flick, the candle goes out, and Regis feels Geralt lie down. He doesn’t pull Regis closer, and it’s a relief; his body feels way too hot and sweaty for any kind of cuddling.

“It was someone I had actually never met personally,” Geralt says in a quiet, soothing voice. “But someone you knew very well.”

Regis suspects half of his brain matter has boiled away because of the fever. He stares at Geralt in the darkness until the witcher grins. He brushes Regis’ sweaty hair away from his face.

“Natanis. Turns out it was her sneaking in and out of the houses of her lovers.”

Regis’ face breaks into a wide, happy smile. Somehow the knowledge of the succubus being alive and well feels like a good omen.

“How is she?”

Geralt chuckles. “Still making the women of Beauclair miserable, so alright, I guess. She went away for several years but returned six months ago.”

“And already has a contract on her head,” Regis murmurs. He laughs. “How did you convince her to talk with you?”

“Dumb luck, actually. I managed to track her to her lair in an abandoned house because one of the homes she visited had a cat in heat. It must’ve rubbed against her quite a lot, because the scent trail carried me all the way to her.”

“Mm, cats like her kind.” Regis feels curiosity burn him. “So?”

Geralt snorts. “She upended a fucking heavy bookshelf on me and then tried to kick my teeth in before I managed to shout that I didn’t want to harm her. At first I didn’t realize who she was, but when I heard her name I knew right away.”

Regis smiles. He has almost exclusively good memories of Natanis. “Did you come to an understanding?”

He feels the bed shift as Geralt shrugs. “Sorta. I told her to be more careful and maybe find a place where she could meet with her lovers. Got no interest in getting mixed up more than I have to. Beauclair’s more than big enough for one succubus, if you ask me.”

“I wonder if she’d like to meet.” Regis wants to see her, but at the same time he’s uncertain. The only reason they ever began talking to each other was because he was a higher vampire. Maybe she’ll be disappointed when she learns Regis is no longer one. At that, he looks up at Geralt.

“Not because I want to rekindle our old relationship,” Regis adds hastily. “We grew close during our stay. I’d just like to talk to her again.”

“Whoa now,” Geralt laughs. “I wasn’t thinking you wanted to—well, you know. I was going to check up on her in a week or so to see if I can help. I’ll pass on your message.”

“Can you warn her?” Regis asks quietly. He’s growing used to being human, no longer actively comparing life in terms of  _ then  _ and  _ now _ , but an old face from the past digs the insecurity up; Natanis was a person he respected from the start, and he’d rather keep the good memories than face scorn. He no longer gets nightmares about Dettlaff, but the memory of him looking at Regis like he was somehow  _ wrong  _ still hurts.

“Regis.” Geralt doesn’t wait for permission, just pulls him close. His arms hug Regis tight. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” Regis says. He knows he doesn’t need to explain why he feels the way he does, and Geralt keeps holding him in silence until he begins to drift off.

He dreams of flying, and of discussing the corbels of the eastern wing of the Beauclair palace; of Nuragus, and a December afternoon in the Karoberta Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a thirsty bitch for succubus/vampire porn I'm totally referring to Dor's fic [Hunter's Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258278) here. Go give it a read because hhhhhholy fuck.


	12. Reorient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some suicide discussion in this chapter. Nothing graphic and not dealing with anything that came to pass.
> 
> Beta by [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Reorient**

/riːˈɒrɪɛnt/

_ Verb; change the focus or direction of; find one's position again in relation to one's surroundings. _

Natanis’ lair is located on the outskirts of Lassommoir, in a house Geralt learned is owned by a family engaged in a bitter inheritance argument spanning two decades. The small house has stood empty all that time, and now it seems most of the neighbours know who lives there; as Geralt walks to the doors, he spots a basket at the doorstep. Closer inspection reveals fresh bread and a bottle of wine, with a note  _ “to Mistress.” _

Geralt snorts. He picks up the basket and makes his way inside. The door isn’t locked, but the house doesn’t look uninhabited; there is no dust or cobwebs in sight, and a candle is lit in the lounge. The days are still short at the beginning of January.

“You came back.”

Geralt turns around. Natanis is watching him from the stairs. Her blonde hair is open and tumbles over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says. He presents the basket to her. “Brought in your groceries.”

The succubus huffs a laugh as she walks closer and accepts the basket. The tips of her curved horns reach Geralt’s shoulder when she stands upright, but Geralt remembers how effortlessly she kicked over a bookshelf that must have weighed a few hundred kilos.

The aforementioned bookshelf is back in its place near the settee where Natanis sits down. She peers into the basket with an amused smile.

“I keep telling her I have no need for this, but she insists. Isn’t it sweet?”

Geralt shrugs. He finds a seat and takes his sword belt off as he sits down. Natanis may be acting friendly, but there is a tension in her that tells Geralt she doesn’t trust a witcher.

“How are you doing? Found another place to entertain your lovers yet?” The complaints have stopped, and Geralt is curious to hear how she manages herself.

“I did not, but one of my sweet ones did,” Natanis says. She sets the basket down and steeples her fingers. Geralt notices her fingernails are the same color as her hooves, very dark brown. “I trust you collected the reward for taking care of the  _ vile demon _ ?”

“I did. Was gonna ask if you need any of the coin, actually.” 

Natanis’ eyes betray her surprise. “Why would you ask that?”

“Happen to know someone who knew you. Someone who wants to know you’re safe.”

“Who would you— _ oh. _ ” Natanis’ mouth falls open, revealing her sharp teeth. It’s an expression of mixed surprise and joy.

“Surely you don’t mean Regis?” she asks. She is smiling now.

“Yep,” Geralt says. He feels conflicted. Judging by the reactions of both Regis and Natanis, the two of them really were close back when their little hansa stayed in Beauclair. The letter Regis gave Geralt burns in his pocket. He knows he has to give it to the succubus.

“How is he?” Natanis asks when Geralt doesn’t elaborate. “I suspected he was present during the mayhem his kind caused two years ago, but I was living elsewhere and didn’t want to get mixed up.” Her eyes are keen, a curious mixture of blue with copper flecks. The stark white of her tattoos mixes with the golden brown of her skin.

“He lives at Corvo Bianco nowadays, down in the Sansretour Valley.” Geralt says. He knows the truth must come out. “He wrote you a letter to explain some stuff.”

“A letter?” Natanis looks confused. “Why didn’t he come and find me? I know you own Corvo Bianco, it was the talk of the town when you decided to settle here.”

“Just read the letter,” Geralt says as he digs it out and hands it to Natanis. “A lot of stuff has changed, and Regis wanted to explain it to you.”

Natanis accepts the letter with a frown and rips it open. Geralt watches her as she reads. The frown turns into open astonishment, incredulous terror, and finally settles into an unreadable, melancholy expression. Geralt doesn’t know what Regis wrote to her, but it seems he was brutally honest about himself, if nothing else.

Natanis finishes the letter and lowers it into her lap. Her hands tremble slightly as she closes her eyes.

“Oh.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Geralt says quietly. “He was happy to hear you’re alive and well.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he wants to emphasize Regis’ good intentions.

Natanis looks at him. Her face is sad. “I was furious when you took him away,” she whispers. Before Geralt can answer, she goes on. “I know it was always his choice to follow you, but at the time I hated you so much.”

Geralt tries to decide whether apologizing is the right thing to do, but in the end he stays quiet. Natanis is right; Regis had decided to follow him to Stygga back then, and not hell nor high water would have turned his head.

Natanis looks at the letter again. “I fell for him. It is so unusual for one of my kind to be able to settle for a single partner for an extended period of time, and when you combine that with his intellect and charm… Well, you know him as well as I do.”

Geralt spends a second wondering just what Regis’ letter said about him, but Natanis goes on. She sighs deeply and then smiles.

“I am not pining for him, if you are wondering about that,” Natanis says. “I moved on, life happened, and I’m rather happy at the moment. It’s good to be back home.”

“You’re from here?” Geralt asks. Something about Natanis’ melodious voice and clever eyes are putting him at ease, and he begins to see why Regis was drawn to her.

“Born and raised in Beauclair,” Natanis grins. “And before you ask, no, I am the only one of my kind in these parts now. There was an incubus running a brothel in Hauteville, but he got bored of humans and moved away. It was a long time ago.”

She gets up and walks to a dresser. There is a large, gilded mirror set on top of it. Natanis plucks out a hairbrush and begins to untangle her hair. She meets Geralt’s eyes through the mirror.

“I would love to come meet Regis. Or he can come here. I trust you’re not keeping him under lock and key in that vineyard of yours?”

Geralt snorts. “As if I could.” He refers to Regis’ inherent stubbornness, but Natanis’ eyes narrow and then a knowing smile makes them twinkle.

“ _ Oho _ . So it is as I suspected.” She looks gleeful, and Geralt’s neck gets hot.

Natanis lets him stew in his discomfort as she brushes her golden blond hair and braids it. When she’s done, she returns to the settee and pins her sharp gaze on Geralt.

“When did this happen? He refused to talk about you, but I always suspected he had feelings for you.”

Geralt clears his throat. “After. Wasn’t a good time before that.” It’s such a clumsy explanation, but Natanis’ eyes mellow with understanding.

“Immortal beings are not supposed to love mortals, yes,” she murmurs, fiddling with a bracelet she is wearing. “All else aside, it seems O’Dimm granted him this one wish. How is he handling humanity?”

“Better than I thought,” Geralt says honestly. “The addiction is gone, and he is so much happier. I’ve never seen him like this.” Again, Natanis is apparently able to read something in his tones, because her eyes turn mischievous.

“Oh my dear, you’ve got it bad,” she laughs. “I was a little worried whether you’re treating Regis right, but you’re _ smitten.  _ Consider yourself redeemed in my eyes.”

“Thanks,” Geralt mutters, drawing another giggle from the succubus. He fights his embarrassment down. “I can let Regis know where you live. He often visits the city, so it’ll be easier for you two to meet here.”

“Do that,” Natanis says. “I will hold on to this wine. We have a lot of catching up to do.” Her lips quirk up. “And don’t worry, dear. I promise I won’t try to seduce him this time.”

Geralt makes a face and she laughs, a loud and open sound. Tension leaves her body, and despite being teased Geralt feels good; he was worried whether Natanis was going to accept Regis as a human, or him being together with a witcher.

Geralt stands up and buckles his swords back in place, but then goes still. In his head, he hears Regis’ voice, telling him about Natanis and what the succubus taught him.

He and Regis have not touched dominance and submission again, apart from affirming their decision to step back from it. Being together has been fulfilling and everything Geralt didn’t even know he was missing, but at times it chafes. He wants to give Regis what he needs, but no apparent solutions have sprung up.

He senses Natanis’ eyes on himself. Succubi are the unparalleled masters of body language, and Geralt wonders whether she already knows what he is trying to find the courage to ask.

“How do you do it?” he finally asks. His voice is quiet, but Natanis leans forward when he turns around to look at her. “How do you know when to stop?”

The succubus closes her eyes as she smiles. “I listen. I watch.”

Geralt rubs his eyes. He can’t tell whether this was a horribly bad idea. He feels vaguely bad about divulging private information about his and Regis’ relationship, although a succubus his lover used to be intimate with probably isn’t the worst option.

“I mean, how do you know you won’t hurt them too much, and that you’re able to stop?” he phrases the question again.

Natanis opens her eyes. The house is dim, and Geralt sees why some people fear her kind; there is frightening intelligence behind her gaze. It is as if she is able to look directly into what Geralt is hiding.

“You enjoy inflicting pain,” she says as she sits up straight. It’s not a question. Geralt looks away, but she waits. Finally he has to look at her and nod.

“And you enjoyed doing it to him.” This time Geralt nods right away. He’s in over his damn head, but unless he starts to swim it’s not going to reach any sort of conclusion.

“Why do people like hurting other people?” Geralt asks. It’s been plaguing him, and there is no way to research this problem the way he’d usually do when he finds himself with questions. 

Natanis shrugs. “I have no idea. I have always known I like both inflicting pain and receiving it. The context is often sexual, but not always. Some part of it is about control; either giving it up, or receiving it.”

“But that’s the problem,” Geralt blurts out. A shiver goes down his spine when Natanis’ frowns. He didn’t mean to say that much.

“You tried it and something happened,” Natanis says slowly. “And now you’re scared of hurting him.”

Geralt nods. He has to look down, because admitting to this now is as awful as it was back then. The shame is there, as is the fear that he might black out and wake up to find only ruins.

“Sit with me, Geralt,” Natanis says. Her tone brooks no argument, so Geralt shrugs his swords off and joins her on the settee. This close he can smell her, a musky scent intertwined with a note that makes him think of black cherries and beeswax.

“Talk to me,” Natanis says when he stops fidgeting. “Tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t hurt him,” Geralt says. He needs to make it absolutely clear to her.

“I’m happy to hear that.” Natanis’ voice is surprisingly gentle. She falls quiet again.

Geralt searches for words. Thinking back to that evening isn’t pleasant.

“Regis asked me to hit him with a crop.” His voice comes out flat and faint. “I had pulled his hair before and that was fine, but something about the crop and the hitting felt—too much. Too close to what I’m like when fighting gets bad.”

“Bad?” Natanis prompts. 

“Witchers are made from monsters,” Geralt says. “We are meant to go down fighting to protect humans. So when I’m overwhelmed, it’s possible I go over the top. It scares people, and…” 

He can’t finish, but when he risks a glance at Natanis she doesn’t look disgusted. Her eyes are thoughtful.

“So you backed out because you feared you’d go mad, ignore the safeword I know Regis must have instilled in you, and harm him?” There’s no judgement in her tone, and Geralt looks up properly. He was almost ready to get his teeth kicked in after all.

“Basically yeah,” he says. It’s odd to feel some of the shame yield at her intense gaze.

“You did the right thing.” 

Something cracks inside Geralt. An ugly, murky liquid bleeds away from where it has surrounded his brain all winter. He is distantly aware of Natanis laying her hand on his arm, but all he can focus on is the profound relief. He did the right thing.

“People who dominate their partners often benefit from having a...mentor, so to say. Someone more experienced spelling out the basics,” she says. “There is an analogue about the relationship between partners who engage in these activities. The dominant person holds a leash and the submissive one is tethered to it, but on their end the leash is fastened by a slipknot. Do you understand why?”

Geralt blinks at his hands. Natanis gives his wrist a squeeze.

“If the dominant person tugs at the leash too hard, it comes loose. If the submissive wants to get free, all they have to do is move away. Everything is done at the pace of the submissive, on their terms. Who has the real power in that, Geralt?”

“The person who submits,” Geralt says. His head has gone very quiet. The dirty feeling is slowly vanishing, and its weight has been so great its absence leaves him lightheaded.

Natanis leans against the backrest. Her body is curvy and graceful, and her tattoos look almost like they move on their own. 

“The submissive gives up the power willingly, to a person of their choice. They always, always have the option to take back as much or little of it as they want. Being chosen to dominate someone is one of the greatest gifts. It shows you are trusted with that power,  _ and  _ trusted to give it back.

“To an outsider, it may look like the person who submits is serving, but the reality is a mirror image. The dominant serves, agreeing to give their partner something they desperately want and need. It’s an honor, but it requires constant vigilance and communication. It’s not a battle haze, but a form of meditating while being as awake as possible.”

Geralt nods. The relief makes him shudder. 

Natanis looks at him with a smile. “Regis is one of the most sensual people I have ever encountered, and I’m not only referring to sex. I trust you have noticed this?”

Geralt thinks about how Regis never complains about his clothes, but how clearly he prefers certain colors and textures. Geralt thinks of coffee with vanilla, and how taking a walk with Regis is fucking impossible because he stops to listen to every bird that sings. He thinks about the way Regis never gets tired of being petted or hugged, like no amount of physical contact is too much.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he says. Natanis looks satisfied.

“When we did this, he just shuddered apart. Experiencing pain made that chattering head of his go blissfully quiet, and I was delighted to give him that,” she says conversationally, as if they are not talking about some of the most intimate things imaginable. “What I couldn’t give him was true dominance, but he was happy with what we had, while we had it.” She looks at Geralt meaningfully, and he nods. 

“It’s different now. He looks pretty much the same, but it corresponds to reality. He’s skinny and not very tall.” Just thinking about Regis as he is now makes Geralt smile.

Natanis snorts a laughter. “I always found it thoroughly amusing. He looked so very unassuming, did he not?”

Geralt smiles. “He mentioned it a few times. Said he didn’t mind being physically weaker.”

Natanis sniffs delicately. “He was always dreadfully curious about submission, but underneath was a need to experience it. It became very clear over time.” Then she turns serious again. “You have the possibility to give him that now, Geralt, but only if you want that too.”

“I do,” he says. It comes out without thinking. Natanis smiles and tilts her head.

“I liked what we did,” Geralt forces out. “I can’t explain  _ why  _ I enjoy that stuff, but I do. I just want him to be safe.”

“The first and last thing every dominant should care about,” Natanis points out. “All I can say is this: go slow, talk about everything, and be honest while you’re at it. You don’t need to do everything at once; it’s okay to break a session into smaller things and try them out one by one before trying to combine them. And it’s alright if after trying it you still feel like you do now.”

It sounds so damn simple, but the guilty, hurting part inside Geralt starts to melt while he listens. It won’t be gone in a week or two and something will likely remain, but suddenly he feels like he won’t have to feel like shit about this for the rest of his life.

Natanis gets up and walks to a chest at the back of the room. She rummages around the contents, until she makes a triumphant sound. When she comes back, she hands Geralt’s a simple, flat box. It’s old. The clasp holding it shut is copper, gone green with age.

“What’s this?” Geralt asks. He moves to open it, but Natanis slaps his hand away.

“Open it if you decide to broach this topic with Regis again. It’s something he will recognize.” She looks entirely too pleased with herself, and Geralt rolls his eyes. He knows he will do as she asks.

He gets up to leave, and as he puts on his swords again he is doing much better. His chest no longer feels like there is something dark and menacing inside it.

“Take care, witcher,” Natanis says. She stretches luxuriously and flicks her short tail. “And take care of Regis.”

“I will,” Geralt says. 

He leaves the house and the succubus, and as he walks through Beauclair he thinks of ways to bring the topic up for discussion again. Before the talk with Natanis the thought made Geralt’s stomach turn. Now he feels calmer, more centered. He almost looks forward to discussing the new options with Regis.

***

They finally ride to the Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery on a wet and grey January day. Geralt lets Regis lead the way, and their conversation flows as they pick their way through the dead undergrowth. Geralt keeps his ears sharp, but the archespores are dormant. Nothing disturbs them on their way to the crypt.

Regis dismounts his horse and as he ties it to a tree he keeps looking around himself.

“It’s odd,” he finally remarks as they step towards the door. Regis pauses in front of the stone crypt and takes in the listing roof. He wraps himself tighter into the thick woollen cloak; Geralt is reminded of how easily Regis gets cold.

“It never bothered me that this is a cemetery,” Regis goes on. He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Now the thought of staying here feels absurd.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Good new or bad new?”

“Both, I think,” Regis hums as he grips the door handle and tugs. The heavy door doesn’t budge, and without thinking Geralt moves closer and extends his hand towards it. Then he halts, because it occurs to him that maybe this bothers Regis.

The former vampire steps back. He nods at Geralt who forces the door open. When Geralt is certain there are no wraiths lurking just down the stairs, he looks back at Regis. There is a frown on the barber-surgeon’s face.

“It’s unsettling,” he says quietly when he meets Geralt’s eye. “There wasn’t much I wasn’t capable of doing before, and now…” He swallows and closes his eyes briefly. “Now I’m so weak.”

Geralt moves closer and tugs Regis into a hug. He brushes his fingers through the dark curls and lets Regis lean on him, and when they part the miserable look is less abject.

Regis lights torches with sure movements, and they descend the steps in easy silence. Geralt keeps himself alert in case of the kikimores, but the truth is he stalled coming back just for this reason. Regis needs this trip, and it’s easier to give him time to sort everything out when at least some of the monsters are in hibernation.

The main chamber echoes, and Regis takes a while to look around. Geralt stands back and watches him.

In the middle of the subterranean darkness, Regis looks like a mysterious traveler. Wrapped up in a cloak, one hand holding a torch and the other one gripping the strap of his satchel, he takes in the cavernous room. There is a melancholy look on his face, and the torch light makes shadows dance around him.

Geralt has to swallow, because Regis is enchanting. Love pulls at his heart; against all the odds they get to be together now. It’s a lot to take in, and some days Geralt still wakes up thinking it was all just a dream.

Regis turns to look at Geralt. His lips twitch into a small smile, oblivious to how spellstruck Geralt feels right then.

“It’s not a place for me any longer. No surprises there.” His voice is low. When he turns and walks towards his former quarters a decisive air settles around him. Geralt follows Regis, and together they coax fire to what candles and torches they can find. In their light the crypt looked almost homely when Geralt first visited it; now the flickering glow just serves to accentuate the abandoned aura.

There are less books than Geralt remembers. Regis sorts through the stacks efficiently, casting most of them aside. When Geralt raises an eyebrow, Regis smiles.

“Your study is very good. I won’t need most of these. The ones I want to bring back mostly have some sentimental value.”

He goes back to leafing through a text in an indecipherable language. Geralt wanders around, checking shelves and boxes for anything that Regis might need, and then his eyes settle on the thin cot on the stone floor. Mildew and rats have eaten through the bedding, and suddenly Geralt’s chest grows tight. In his mind he sees Regis curling up there, all alone in the dark crypt, fighting the bloodlust and absolutely certain he has no one to call for help.

Geralt blinks rapidly, what is done is done. There is nothing he can do to alter how things went. Life changed for them both, but Regis seems almost happy nowadays. Geralt tries to fight back the shame, but then he sees the familiar, thin journal peeking out from under the moldy pillow. His throat closes up.

Geralt hadn’t meant to read it. He had been visiting the crypt, months after Regis had returned from tracking down Dettlaff. Regis himself had been away, off running some errands. The diary had been open on the desk next to the ingredients of the better insectoid oil they had been developing. Geralt had glanced at it absently; his blood had run cold when his brain had caught up to what he was seeing.

Geralt crouches down and picks up the journal with numb fingers. He distantly hears Regis moving around behind him, but his vision narrows down. He doesn’t open the book, but he doesn’t have to. The words are etched into his memory.

_ I strive to live as a person, and it means that I have ceased to feel good among people as well as my own. Maybe I made a big mistake. _

The first feeling was a charring sort of a shock, followed closely by gut-rotting shame. Geralt knew he had no business poking through Regis’ personal journal, but the words of his friend were too enormous to forget. Geralt remembers almost dropping the candle he was holding, and then backing away from the open diary like it was a bomb about to go off.

_ I have always wanted to write: I am very tired and fuck it all. _

There were no dates next to the scribblings, but from then on Geralt heard them inside his head every time he saw Regis. It was only a few months before O’Dimm found Regis, and in retrospect Geralt knows it must have been the most difficult time in Regis’ life. His best friend was suffering through every hour.

Geralt also remembers how helpless he felt. He knew what was inside the deep, dark part of him, because that feeling coiled tight when Regis was there, and ached when he wasn’t. It had been there for years, and Geralt had no idea how to uproot it. By then that want defined him as much as his life’s experiences, because at some point Regis had become irreplaceable.

A soft hand landing on his shoulder shakes him out of his thoughts. Geralt looks up from the diary and meets Regis’ eyes. The former vampire looks sad and tired, and Geralt knows Regis can read him like an open book.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt croaks as he stands up. He thrusts the journal into Regis’ hands, only to notice his own are shaking. “I didn’t mean to read it, I just—”

“Geralt, it’s alright,” Regis interrupts him. He looks down at the diary and his mouth pulls into a grimace. “I knew you must have found it. Maybe I even left it out on purpose. The memories of that time aren’t clear.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats. He digs his nails into his palms, but it’s too late and too much; he recalls how terrified he was of losing Regis back then. He remembers having nightmares where he came to the crypt and found Regis dead, because—

“Did you plan to do it?” his mouth asks before he can stop the words. Geralt swallows bile and closes his eyes. He almost managed to forget this scrabbling horror but now it is alive again. His nightmares were entirely too vivid, because his imagination latched onto the possibility of Regis killing himself.

There is a soft thud as the journal falls to the stone floor, and then Regis hugs Geralt close. Geralt tries to avoid crushing him as he brings his arms around Regis’ thin shoulders, but his heart is beating too loud, tugging its way free.

Regis is shaking. Without thinking, Geralt holds him closer and tucks his nose against the cold skin on Regis’ throat. The thrum of his human pulse reminds him that Regis is alive and here.

“I think so,” Regis finally whispers. His voice is detached. “Eventually. Or if I—” his voice breaks, but Geralt can fill in the blanks. He hates that he can.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says for the third time. He forces his eyes open and cups Regis’ cheeks. He looks helpless, and there are unshed tears in his coal-black eyes. Geralt feels how desperately tight Regis grips his wrists. 

“Me too,” Regis finally whispers. A few tears sneak down his too-sharp cheekbones, but he doesn’t look away. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I should’ve helped you,” Geralt says. His voice crumbles. He has no idea how he could have helped Regis. If his blood was the root of the problem, the only thing Geralt could have done was remove himself from Regis’ life.

Regis shakes his head but does nothing to dislodge the embrace. It’s different from the past, when he would have donned a mask and assured Geralt that all is well, not to worry. Now he allows the emotions to show.

“There was nothing you or anyone else could have done,” Regis says in a low voice. “I couldn’t isolate myself from humans completely, not when I wanted to keep the life I used to have.”

“I insisted on being around,” Geralt mutters. He tries to fight against spilling over, but he just feels so damn guilty. “I couldn’t let you go. I kept touching and hugging you, even when I knew it was hurting you, all because I just—I wanted it too much.” 

It doesn’t encompass the depth of the longing he felt even then, not even close. Geralt remembers how much he kept hurting, because Regis was right there, he was back, the hope had been rekindled by accident, and it was forbidden. They could never be together.

“I wanted you to be around,” Regis says with a sad smile. He gains some certainty, and the shaking abates, little by little. “I always wanted to have you in my life, in any capacity you’d allow. The truth is I was hopelessly enamoured with you even before I got melted to the floor of Stygga castle.”

Geralt sniffs. He feels like absolute shit. This trip was supposed to be about Regis and his former home, but he managed to fall apart.

Regis chuckles weakly. “There are parts I miss about my former life, but what I have now is better. The addiction is gone. I’m free from it, and that allows me to have so many things I thought impossible.” His eyes grow softer towards the end.

Geralt nods and somehow manages to swallow the worst of the sorrow. “Promise me you’ll tell me if you ever feel like—that again?” he forces out. He missed the signs once, and he swears he won’t do it again.

Regis nods right away. He looks like he understands perfectly what Geralt refers to.

“The same goes for you,” he remarks in that same gentle voice. Geralt snorts, but Regis just squeezes his wrists and then pushes closer until they are pressed together. His arms squeeze Geralt by his waist.

“I have a life now,” Regis says. “I have a home, and I have  _ you _ . I don’t feel like I got cheated by O’Dimm.”

The name echoes around them, and for half a second Geralt fears it will summon the demon. Then his mind catches up to the words Regis said.

_ Home. _

He has not asked, because Regis deserves to be free, but deep inside Geralt keeps hoping Regis will stay. He has done everything he can to show Regis that Corvo Bianco can be his home too, and now Regis called it that without thinking.

As Geralt kisses Regis he tucks the words away inside his mind. He hopes that they can replace the words in the journal, because he finds he needs that; he wants to trust in what they have.

***

They don’t say the words every day, but often enough for Geralt to feel them stack inside his head; some days the pile feels solid and safe, and sometimes it teeters on the verge of tumbling down. He doesn’t know how he could stop these days from happening, because he wants to be sure about this. He is in love.

“Sleep well,” Regis murmurs into his hair. Geralt feels him press against his back. He is lying on his side, half-asleep; sometimes Regis wants to be the big spoon. He wraps himself around Geralt, and despite him being physically smaller it feels safe.

Geralt drifts off, and the world steps back. Unfortunately what takes its place is a memory, distorted by his subconscious. He is simultaneously making the wish to the djinn and feeling it unravel; Yen is there, both versions of her present at the same time, her voice echoing as she commands the djinn to break the magic binding them together.

_ “Please, don’t. Don’t do it.” _

Geralt never said the words. He didn’t want to lose the connection, but he knew he had no right to stop Yen. They had to know whether they were truly in love, because if it was just something created by magic, it wasn’t real.

_ It wasn’t real. _

Geralt loses the connection in the dream, and the familiar hollow ache claims him. He falls to his knees, and the dream takes him to the crypt. He is again kneeling over Regis, heart hurting because he has been in love all this time. He never called it love, didn’t want to acknowledge what he could never have, but he knows. He knows he loves Regis and that losing him will end him. Just like he knew losing Yen would.

The dream breaks and Geralt wakes with a gasp. He lies still in the darkness, heart hammering, and listens to Regis’ slow breathing until he calms down. By then he is no longer sleepy.

Geralt turns to look at Regis. The former vampire is sleeping on his back, mouth slightly open. His heartbeat is slow, and Geralt knows he is in the deep sleep phase; dreamless and healing. Unmoving, completely relaxed, because he trusts nothing will harm him here.

Geralt watches Regis and knows that he loves him. What Geralt doesn’t know is what love is supposed to feel like. It is similar to what he felt for Yen, so how can he be sure? How can he keep Regis, if he has somehow mistaken the feeling?

Another thought occurs to him, and it makes him shudder: what if he  _ has _ somehow jinxed this? What if he is cursed, so that people whom he falls for have no choice? What if the last wish is still there, just switching targets?

A candle sparks into life as Geralt rushes into the study and flicks his fingers. He pulls out books and notes and sits down on the floor because the desk isn’t large enough for all of them. He starts to read, leafing through the tomes with shaking hands, because he  _ has to know. _ He has to know if a djinn can curse him so that he can accidentally force someone to love him back.

He feels stupid for being so undone by his worry, but at the same time a louder voice commands him; there hasn’t been a single person who would have wanted to stay with him, not in all of his years. What makes Regis wish to do that? Is some magic clouding his judgement? 

Nausea burns his throat as he tries to focus on the words, but the lines jump and stutter. One book slips from his fingers and he lets it stay where it lands, picking up another one at random and starting again. Anything, anything to tell him he is not imagining this.

“Geralt? What’s wrong?”

Geralt’s head snaps up. Regis is standing in the doorway. He is blinking sleep from his eyes and looking worried. Geralt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

_ What if he’s wrong? What if he loses Regis? _

Regis steps closer and kneels down next to him. He frowns as he looks at the books and scrolls scattered around Geralt. He sees, as if in slow-motion, Regis mouth the words  _ djinns and their magical properties  _ from the open book he’s gripping like a lifeline. Geralt holds his breath, but then Regis looks at him. His eyes are sad and understanding.

“Oh, Geralt,” he whispers. Regis carefully picks the book from his suddenly slack hands and puts it away before hugging him closer. It’s awkward with both of them sitting on the floor, and Geralt can’t relax.

“I have to know,” Geralt forces himself to say. “I have to know if I’ve somehow fucked this up, made you—stay against your will.” He can’t say the word  _ love _ because it’s too big and full of barbs that will cut him.

“Why on earth would you think I’m here against my will?” Regis asks. He cups Geralt’s cheek and refuses to let him look away. “I have said this many times: I’m here because I’m happy. I’m with  _ you  _ because you make me happy.”

It breaks something. Geralt flinches and his breath hitches.

“No one has stayed before.” His voice comes out faint. “Not like—not like this. Without a deadline.”

Regis draws in a breath and then presses a kiss into his hair.

“So you’re afraid that the djinn is still influencing your life?” he asks quietly. “That it has somehow switched its magic on me?”

“Yeah.”

Regis sighs. He settles more comfortably against Geralt on the floor and takes his hand.

“Please look at me.” His voice doesn’t demand. It’s just tired and gentle. Geralt manages to look up. He has to swallow, because he is so overwhelmed; when he looks at Regis he feels so damn certain again, and he is too afraid to trust in that.

“What did Yennefer say about the djinn’s magic?” Regis asks. It’s definitely not a question Geralt expects. “How did she describe it?”

Geralt takes a deep breath as he thinks. “She said… She told me she had feelings for me. And that at times she hated me so much that she was certain we’d never meet again.” He licks his lips. Regis just nods, although his eyes darken. It passes.

“Go on,” he prompts in that same gentle voice. “You always found each other again.”

“Yeah. She said that was the djinn’s magic. It...reminded her of the things she liked about me. It made it possible to ignore the bits she hated, made her want to see me again.” 

Gods, but he hates talking about the djinn. He feels like such an asshole now, after all these years. Once again Geralt curses his whim to use the last wish in such a way.

“It’s not the same, Geralt.” Regis’ voice pulls him to the surface of his thoughts. Geralt looks at him again, and is surprised to see he’s smiling.

“My feelings for you are constant,” Regis goes on when he sees he has Geralt’s attention. “They don’t come and go. They have been there for over a decade, unchanged. I didn’t dare to examine them before I became human, but I have loved you for such a long time.” Regis gives his fingers a squeeze.

Geralt’s ears ring. He has to blink rapidly, but Regis sees how his words find their intended target.

“I don’t need reminders as to why I love you, magical or otherwise. I’m exactly where I want to be, and it’s a place in life I never thought possible,” Regis says. “I’m not going to come and go, or make you guess. If you want me here, you have me.”

The tension snaps, and Regis holds him as Geralt fights to ride out the cacophony of relief, embarrassment, and exhaustion. He has spent the whole autumn and winter guessing and worrying, and now the anxiety starts to erode. It won’t be gone overnight, but Geralt finds himself believing Regis.

***

Regis is reading in the study when Geralt walks in. The witcher sits next to him on the chaise longue, close enough to touch. When Regis puts the book away, he flops down. His head ends up in Regis’ lap. It looks ridiculous because the furniture isn’t meant to accommodate a fully grown witcher and another adult male, and Regis chuckles.

“And hello to you as well.” He brushes the white hair.

“Busy?” Geralt asks. He spent the morning helping to fix a leaky roof at Sonja’s neighbor’s house. Winter is back to being mostly grey and full of mud and sleet.

“Not particularly,” Regis admits. “Is there something on your mind?” 

His own mind is busy today. He’s riding to Beauclair tomorrow, to finally meet Natanis. Agreeing on a time to meet the succubus turned out to be tricky, when the said succubus is busy enjoying her life with several lovers.

Regis remembers Geralt coming back from meeting with her. There was something he didn’t tell Regis then, but he seemed happier than before. Regis let it be, mostly because he was excited to hear Natanis still wanted to be friends. 

“Kinda,” Geralt says. He closes his eyes as Regis continues petting him. “I wanted to talk about dominance and submission again.”

Regis is surprised. He put the matter to rest, for the most part. After his worry for Geralt eased he has not thought about it, apart from when he spends private time. Geralt must have noticed the marks his dull human nails leave at times, but he has not brought those up.

“Are you sure?” Regis asks. “I’m happy with you.”

Geralt opens his eyes and smiles. “Likewise. But I may have ended up talking about the problem with Natanis.”

“ _ Oh _ .” Regis isn’t sure what to think. This definitely isn’t what he expected.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Geralt says when he stays quiet. “I didn’t plan it or anything, but when I was leaving I just...asked her about the stuff that went wrong.”

“What? No, of course I don’t mind,” Regis rushes to reassure Geralt. The unhappy frown eases from the witcher’s face. “I’m just surprised.”

“I know we agreed to let that stuff go,” Geralt says. He swallows. “But it’s always on my mind, and it feels like something you really care about.”

Regis sighs. “I do care about it, but you’re much more important to me.”

Geralt draws in a deep breath. “I want to try again. Talking with Natanis helped. If I don’t even try to untangle this it’s just gonna grow inside my head and cause trouble.”

Regis chews on his lip. The idea of enjoying this is colored by worry, because Regis had never seen Geralt fall apart quite like that. The witcher watches him and his face turns soft as he smiles. He reaches to brush his fingers down Regis’ cheek.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure I want to do this. Natanis suggested we could break it into smaller pieces, and it feels like a good idea.”

“Alright.” Regis bends down to kiss Geralt’s forehead. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just… Going slow,” Geralt says. “I want to try again what we tried last time, but go slower.”

The first tendril of heat curls inside Regis’ belly. It’s tender, thoroughly gentle, but exciting nonetheless.

“Alright,” he says again.

Later, when the villa is empty but for the two of them, Regis lays down on the bed and pulls Geralt next to him. He thought about it and concluded that he trusted Geralt enough for him to know if they needed to stop. His lover has been working through his troubles, and especially after the matter of the djinn was put to rest he has been more at peace. Regis is coming to love Geralt all the more for it, because he if anyone knows how arduous a process solving old traumas is.

The room is warm thanks to the elemental, the curtains are closed, and a lone oil lamp illuminates it. They spend a long time laying tangled together. Regis breathes in the familiar smell of soap and blade oil, and he feels safe. Geralt’s hand is stroking his side, unhurried and relaxed. Regis kisses him, taking his time, and if nothing else the evening will be full of comfort.

“I just remembered something,” the witcher says against his lips. He reaches into the low chest he keeps under the bed and digs out a flat box. He looks like he is caught halfway between amusement and embarrassment. “Natanis gave this to me. She told me to open it if we decided to try again. She said you’d recognize it.” His tone raises in question as he hands the box to Regis.

Regis frowns. He flicks the clasp open, and then feels blood rush to his face.

“Oh, surely not.” 

Geralt looks into the box and barks a laugh. On faded satin lies a paddle, well-worn and intimately familiar to Regis. The leather is the color of cognac, and when Regis breathes in, he smells a familiar note of honey. Natanis used a special oil to care for her leather toys, and it seems some habits never die.

“Thoughts?” Geralt asks. Regis tears his eyes away from the paddle, and relief floods him. Geralt is looking like he is on the verge of laughing, still relaxed where they press together skin on skin. 

“I might have to have a few words with our mutual horned friend,” Regis mutters as he picks up the paddle and drops the box on the floor. He runs his thumb along the stitching, and his sensory memory lights up; he remembers this, and he also remembers…

“I can smell you,” Geralt murmurs. He presses closer, until Regis rolls on his back. They kiss, and there is the barest hint of possessiveness in it. Regis shivers, and when Geralt plucks the paddle from his slack fingers he barely notices. His body is again going pliant with sheer want, and while he hangs on to some coherence to see how Geralt is doing, nothing feels amiss. 

“I always smell it afterwards when you’ve touched yourself, too,” Geralt whispers. His breaths are slow and hot where they brush against Regis’ ear. “I have kept hoping I’d catch you doing it, because I love that smell.”

A soft moan wells up in Regis’ throat. Geralt kisses him again, tongue invading his mouth and hips pressing together. His hands land on Geralt’s waist and hold on, and he completely loses track of time. 

“I have an idea.” Geralt’s voice is pleased, and when Regis blinks open his eyes the golden irises are almost swallowed by the black of Geralt’s pupils. The witcher turns him on his stomach, and Regis feels him straddle his thighs. Strong hands start massaging him, starting from the back of his neck and slowly working their way lower. Geralt’s cock rests against Regis’ ass, and a soft whine escapes him every time it presses against him more firmly.

“Tell me what you like,” Geralt whispers. He leans closer, and his chest feels hot against Regis’ back. Regis licks his lips. His head is hazy, and Geralt’s slow, dark voice is something he has grown to love.

“The paddle,” he says, and it draws a chuckle from Geralt. “It feels good when used on my ass and thighs. You can hit hard with it, because it won’t split skin.” He doesn’t know what makes him say it, but then it occurs to him. When there is no danger of leaving a scar, it’s easier to try this.

Geralt sits back up and next Regis feels the soft leather caress his back, slipping down over his ass. He arches into it, a whine building in his throat again. Gods, but he needs this. He needs to be hurt, because he is so, so in love, and he can’t think of anyone he could trust as much as he trusts Geralt.

“I love you,” Regis whispers. His breaths are shallow, but he has to say it. He cranes his head around and catches Geralt’s eye. Geralt goes still and then he smiles, more vulnerable than Regis expects. 

“I trust you,” Regis adds. 

The first strike takes him by surprise. It’s not hard, but he feels it. A sharp gasp escapes him. A silence follows, and then he feels Geralt smooth his hand over the spot. The witcher draws in a deep breath.

“Harder?” he asks. His voice is low, and Regis hears nothing but content excitement in it.

“Yes. Please,” he says.

The plea makes Geralt chuckle, and he shifts a bit, giving himself more room.

Regis didn’t know just how much he needed this, but when the strikes start, he forgets how to stay silent. His mind goes completely quiet, and the only thing he can focus on is the bright, hot flash of pain, repeated over and over across the back of his thighs and his ass. It violently drags him out of his head; it has been such a long time without this, and every thunderclap landing on him heals something nothing else can reach.

When it stops, Regis vaguely realizes he is panting. His breathing is ragged and fast, and he is so hard he is hurting, cock leaking a sticky patch against his lower belly. Then there is a warm, familiar body pressing close again, and he hisses in pain. His skin feels raw and tender.

“Holy fuck,” Geralt breathes into his ear. He kisses the back of his neck and then bites down, making Regis buck up. He feels Geralt’s cock against himself, and almost sobs.

“Please,” Regis gasps. “Please.” He has no idea what he is begging for, only that he needs to be touched right now, and he needs Geralt to do that.

Regis ends up on his back again, and the sheets dragging against his ass make him hiss out a breath. Geralt looks at him with an expression of wonder. He shuffles down and sucks Regis into his mouth before he can utter any more nonsense, and Regis grips his hair hard. A pleased moan vibrates against his cock. Geralt’s eyes are positively grinning as he works his throat, and Regis can only hang on.

He starts to shake as his orgasm creeps closer, fast and chaotic. All that exists is Geralt’s mouth on him, the drag of the sheets against the welts, the bright and adoring way he feels when they are together. Regis breaks, coming into Geralt’s mouth with what is almost a shout. His whole body tingles as he goes boneless. 

He floats in the blissful quiet of his mind, and feels Geralt’s clean him and then settle close. Regis rolls onto his side without opening his eyes, and the witcher brushes a kiss to his cheek as he hugs him close.

Geralt is content to be quiet and pet him, avoiding his ass and thighs. They feel hot and a deep ache is settling into the muscles, and Regis practically purrs as he tries to guess whether he’ll get bruises. All marks used to heal so quickly in the past, but now he gets to enjoy them.

“You look happy,” Geralt points out. Regis peers at him through his sweaty hair, and the witcher grins. 

“A gross underestimation,” Regis mumbles. His head is slowly waking up, but he knows from past experience the annoying background chatter won’t come back for days. 

Geralt keeps smiling. “You looked incredible.”

“How do you feel?” Regis asks. He tries to gather enough of his wits to focus properly on Geralt.

“Good,” Geralt says. “I wasn’t prepared for how much you’d enjoy that.”

Regis hums and smiles lazily. “Fuck me next time.” 

He has a passing thought that maybe he is being greedy, but then Geralt groans and shifts, and Regis feels how hard he is. Smile stretching into a grin, he reaches a hand and wraps it around Geralt’s erection.

“Come here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in _such a slump_ with my depression but I'm slowly slogging through this! We can do this!


	13. Salvage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally polished this chapter a bit earlier than intended and now I'm sitting here like _wait_ so idk, you can have it a few days early. :D One more to go!
> 
> Beta by [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Salvage**

/ˈsalvɪdʒ/

_ Verb; to achieve something in a situation or action that has been a failure. _

In retrospect, getting spanked the night before going to meet a succubus for tea wasn’t among the best ideas Regis had ever had. The morning after he feels an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when he has no bruises to show for what they did. It morphs into full relief when he mounts Dawn and sees Geralt’s shit-eating grin as he watches.

“Do stay quiet,” Regis tells him as he shifts a little in the saddle. The witcher bursts into laughter as Regis presses his heels in and Dawn takes him away from the vineyard. He isn’t exactly comfortable, but it could be a lot worse. Regis knows Geralt was most likely thinking about his best yesterday.

He finds the building after getting lost a few times. The streets are wet and the day is overcast and grey, but when he steps in and Natanis turns around with a huge smile on her face, it feels like stepping into bright sunshine. 

“Regis!”

Her hooves click sharply against the floor, and the next thing Regis knows she is hugging him, and he is thrown back many years. Her scent is exactly the same, and when she pulls back Regis sees the years have been kind to her. The golden hair is much longer now, but her face is even more beautiful than before.

“Natanis. It’s so good to see you again.” 

“Likewise.” Natanis doesn’t let him go, but she takes a good look at him. “And I can see why that grumpy witcher snatched you up. Should I make a deal with this O’Dimm too?”

Coming from anyone else, Regis would feel some mixture of horror and insult, but Natanis has never shied away from laughing at the dark sides of life. He chuckles.

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Have you ever experienced a common cold, my dear? I’m finding new depths to the respect I have for humans.”

Natanis snorts and lets him go. “Come in. I’m sorry it took such a long time to arrange a date, but  _ dearest tubbynubs _ had a problem he needed my help with.”

Regis chokes back a laugh. He has no idea to whom she is referring, but there is an equal amount of exasperation and fondness in her voice to tell him it is most likely a long-time lover.

Natanis pulls him down to a settee and then presents him with a bottle of wine.

“Ta-dah. It’s not Nuragus, but it will have to do.” She opens the bottle and sniffs at the cork before presenting the wine to Regis. He takes a long inhale, and smells a mixture of vanilla, black cherries, and a darker undernote. 

“It could use some air,” he says as he passes the bottle back her. The succubus nods, clearly satisfied with the assessment, and pours generous glasses to them both. 

“My nose isn’t what it used to be, but unless I’m terribly mistaken, this wine came from the Pomerol vineyard,” Regis says. He takes another inhale of the wine. “Yes, Côte-de-blessure.”

Natanis looks at him with her mouth quirked up. “No guess as to the vintage?”

Regis takes a sip. He can’t help returning her smile, because being like this is comfortable; he had not realized how much he feared losing the friendship with Natanis.

“1260?” he guesses. Natanis’ eyes grow wide and she tsk’s.

“1262, Regis. Really, you should know better than that.” There is a short silence, and then both of them burst into laughter. Natanis takes his hand and presses a kiss to it.

“Oh, how I have missed you! Beauclair is still lovely, but knowing that you are alive and well makes me so happy.” She flicks her long braid over her shoulder. 

“The feeling is mutual, my dear.” Regis cocks his head. “But what is this I hear about you already having a contract on your head?”

Natanis rolls her eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me, Emiel Regis. This time I was just very unlucky. A child saw me leaving a house one night.”

“Mm. One could even argue you got lucky again,” Regis points out. He samples the wine again, and smiles. “Or what else could it be, when they put the very same witcher on your trail?”

“We are destined to circle each other for the rest of eternity,” Natanis says in a fateful tone before breaking into a giggle. “I thought he was pulling my leg when he said he didn’t want to hurt me. I didn’t know who he was, you see. Last time you were our messenger.”

“We never actually agreed anything whatsoever about you,” Regis says with a sly smile. “I was merely present when Milton and Palmerin begged him not to harm you.”

Natanis tuts. “Palmerin was so angry with me! He brooded and sulked for a whole year after you left, calling me all manner of names and refusing to see me.”

“I trust the man came to his senses. Scorning your company isn’t something any sensible person would willingly do.” Regis feels the wine settle into him, and it lifts what dark undertones his thoughts had. 

“Oh yes,” Natanis says. She sips her wine and winks at him. “I have my ways to soothe a bruised ego, as you know.”

“Bruised ego? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Regis says with mock-affront, and Natanis laughs.

They talk long. The wine isn’t as good as Nuragus, but the warmth of Natanis’ company and her brilliant intellect and sharp wit more than make up for it. Regis relaxes into the settee as they slowly work their way through the bottle and their respective life stories. Turns out neither has lived what could be called a quiet and uneventful decade, and Regis is surprised when he realizes it’s getting late. 

“I should head back,” he says reluctantly when there is a pleasant lull in the conversation. He is slowly getting hungry, and if he knows Natanis at all, so is she. This time Regis won’t be able to help her.

“You will come again?” Natanis asks as Regis begins to work his coat back on. “I can’t say that I’m lonely, but you have a special place in my heart, Regis. It doesn’t matter that you’re human, I’d still like to be your friend.”

Regis takes her hand and presses a kiss to it. “I promise that. You are very dear to me.” He gives her a softer smile. “Thank you for what you did for Geralt.”

A knowing glint sparks in the succubus’ eyes. “Say, is my settee too hard on your rump?”

Regis feels himself blush, but this is Natanis; she has seen everything about him in this regard. He just laughs and nods.

“You might consider investing in some comfortable furniture. Just a thought.” 

Natanis winks at him again, and after they hug Regis leaves her to get ready for whatever she has planned for the night.

The day is just beginning to turn towards evening. Most of the people have made their way back home already, and Regis stuffs his hands into his pockets as he begins to walk back to the stables where he left Dawn. His head is buzzing from the wine, pleasantly so, and a slight smile remains on his face.

He never thought he could have something like this. A place to call home and people he could call friends without having to hide parts of himself or lie. And a lover, for whom he has had feelings for the past decade or so. A lover who was out of reach, until the whole world turned upside down.

He is deep in thought as he walks, so when two dark shapes step out from an alley and block his way, they manage to startle him.

“It’s him,” a voice says. Regis doesn’t recognize either of the two men. Upon a second glance they look like any thugs. He remembers the dagger strapped to his belt, but reaching for it right away feels like a bad idea. 

Geralt asked him whether he had any way of defending himself early on, before they were even close to becoming lovers. Regis remembers looking up from his notebook.

“Yes, of course.”

“Such as?” Geralt’s voice was doubtful.

“I had to pass for a middle-aged human for a very long time, Geralt. I taught myself how to use a dagger.”

“But that was before. Have you tried it now?”

It had resulted in Regis giving a passable demonstration of his skills, and made Geralt frown a little less. Regis neglected to mention that healers were always knowledgeable about topics people preferred not to think about; if you knew how to heal people, you inevitably knew how to kill them as well.

Regis lets the two burly men walk him down the alley. He mentally catalogues his possessions; a small coin pouch, his notebook, the dagger, and two bombs he pilfered from Geralt; one for causing momentary blindness and loss of hearing, the other for shrapnels. The last one he doesn’t wish to use because unlike before, the list of injured would include his own person.

There are also the poisons he carries. Three of them, each of a different strength ranging from incapacitating to lethal. They are stored in glass vials of his own design, with a weakness that allows him to expel the contents without spilling any on himself. It would be possible to get away from the thugs, but Regis admits to himself he is slightly curious. They are not after his money. They know who he is.

The walk doesn’t take long. They come to a stop next to a nondescript door, and the uglier of the men knocks.

“Got ‘im,” he says in a normal voice. Regis frowns as they wait, because surely he would need to speak louder to be heard?

No answer comes, but suddenly anxiety crawls up Regis’ spine when he connects the dots. The man is not speaking up because whoever is waiting on the other side can hear him perfectly well. Before he can react, Regis is pushed through the door, and his stomach drops. It’s exactly what he feared, and he curses his overconfidence.

Orianna meets his eye with a smile. She is wearing a dark plum dress, and her hair is in an elaborate plait.

The room they are in is nothing fancy, clearly just a waypoint. Regis begins to feel more and more of what he distantly classifies as fear. He was never afraid of Orianna before, but he also didn’t hesitate to make his dislike known to her. There wasn’t much she could do about his scorn of her habits; all higher vampires are equals. 

Now, however…

“Oh, Regis.” Orianna’s voice is soft, but there is a deliberate glint in her eyes. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”

“Hello, Orianna.” Regis is happy to notice his voice stays even. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can’t I simply check up on an old friend?” Orianna asks. “I was worried when you vanished from the aether. Many thought you had truly taken your own life.”

“That is kind of you,” Regis says. “I am, however, perfectly fine.”

Orianna purses her lips and then makes a show of taking Regis in. “Well. There are easier ways to get your looks back.”

Regis barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Of course, some would say that what you did to yourself is worse than dying by your own hand,” Orianna says as if Regis never spoke. Her eyes stay detached. “You caused quite a stir among our kind, Regis. Even drew dear Dettlaff out from hiding, if only for a spell.”

Regis refuses to show how much hearing that hurts. He stares at Orianna, eyes hard, until she smiles again. 

“You see, Regis, humans are fragile. Witchers, too, but ordinary humans especially. Did you really think this through when you debased yourself?”

There it is, the same thinly-veiled disdain Orianna has always held for humans. It was the reason Regis never found reasons to like her. Her vanity and the orphanage played a role, but this is the root and cause of their mutual animosity.

“Are you threatening me?” Regis asks in a quiet tone. He knows he should be afraid, and maybe the feeling will come in a moment. Right now he is just full of the same cool anger he felt every time he was invited to one of Orianna’s soirees or boudoir nights. She has her ways of subtly taunting him about the addiction.

Had. She may be a being of immense age and power, but blood holds no sway over Regis anymore.

“I don’t really need to, my friend.” Orianna leans against the far wall and crosses her arms. It’s blatant how much she enjoys this. Both of them know she is able to kill Regis in a second. She clearly thinks she has finally found a way to beat Geralt, too.

“Your...relations with the witcher have been kept under the lid, but I have my ways,” she goes on. “Becoming one of the cattle wasn’t enough for you?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.” Regis feels the human anger rise inside him. A second too late he realizes Orianna feels it too.

In a flash, she is in his space, pressing his back against the door. This close her perfume is overpowering, and a distant thought makes Regis wonder whether he smelled this pungent when he had to hide his true nature. Orianna runs her cold fingers down both sides of Regis’ throat.

“No, you don’t,” she agrees. The sweetness has turned mocking. “But you are also in no position to argue. Higher vampires don’t harm each other, which is a shame if you ask me. Some people, even my kind, would be better off dead.” Her eyes flash, her true shape barely visible before her mask is back in place.

Regis feels his heart pump faster. Orianna hears it too. Her lips curl up.

“I was forced to tolerate your scorn for such a long time,” Orianna goes on. “Watch you fraternize with humans, and when that wasn’t enough, with a witcher. It was painfully obvious how you pined for him. You lusted after a killer of our kind, and then went and threw away your heritage and dignity the moment it became convenient.”

Regis tries to shove her back before he gets a grip of his anger. Orianna doesn’t move an inch, but her eyes go wide. She looks at Regis like his hands were covered in oozing boils.

“So you find me now, when I have no means to defend myself, just so you can have some long-rehearsed last word, is that it?” Regis spits at her. “You don’t scare me. You don’t scare the witcher. He will come for you and you know it. It scares  _ you _ , because you know it’s a fight you can’t win.”

Razor-sharp claws press against his jugular. Orianna bares her teeth, and Regis feels it; the fear is here now. It’s not the same blind horror as when he was in this same position with Dettlaff, but very close to it. Then, he was falling apart. Now he is angry.

“Is this how you want it to go?” he says. He can’t prevent his voice from quivering. His breaths come shallow and uneven as his body readies itself for the pain.

“What worth do you have?” Orianna hisses. Her eyes glow silver. “Who would care enough to save you?”

“Step back from him.”

For a few seconds nothing happens. Regis thinks he might already be dead, because there is no one to accompany the voice that makes Orianna halt.

Then red mist seeps into the room. It forces its way in through the crack in the doorframe, and before Regis understands what is happening Orianna’s claws are gone and she is back at the far end of the room. Her face is now twisted with hatred.

“You!” she snarls. 

Dettlaff takes his physical form between them. He faces Orianna with a cold expression. 

“You will not harm him.”

“Who are you to give me orders?” Orianna takes a deep breath as she forces her claws and fangs back behind the mask. Seconds later the layer of the noblewoman is impeccable, but her expression is full of loathing as she darts looks between Regis and Dettlaff.

“You have no power over me,” she says when Dettlaff doesn’t answer. “He is no longer one of us. The codex doesn’t protect him.”

“You’re right,” Dettlaff says. His voice is dark and cold. Regis sees Orianna shiver. “But if you or any of your friends do harm him, I will come and find you.”

“He’s a human!” Orianna says. She gestures towards Regis. “A mortal one! Why do you care?”

Regis looks at Dettlaff just as he turns his head. Their eyes meet, and Regis remembers how it all was.

He remembers waking up after Stygga and almost breaking his newly-molded spine because his nonexistence had been plagued by nightmares and horrors. Dettlaff then explained to him where he was and what had happened—many times, because Regis’ memory took a while to start working properly again.

Dettlaff was kind and patient. He had trouble regulating his emotions, and Regis wanted to help him with that. They grew close during the long years of his recovery, and Regis could never begin to put into words how much Dettlaff came to mean to him.

As their eyes meet, Regis doesn’t know what to expect, but the sadness he sees in Dettlaff’s face still takes him by surprise. Before he can say anything, Dettlaff turns his head back to address Orianna.

“I will be watching you. If he or the people he cares about are harassed or harmed, you know to whom you will answer,” Dettlaff says. He takes one small step towards Orianna, and she bares her teeth again. But she does not attack, and Regis knows why.

Old and powerful as Orianna is, she is not a match to Dettlaff. No one seems to know what Dettlaff’s unique abilities are, but Regis thinks he has a better guess than most: Dettlaff is a leader of the quiet ones. One who could replace an elder some day.

Orianna vanishes in a flash, and then it’s just the two of them. Regis draws in a shaky breath when he finally believes he won’t be dying in the next minute or so. His hands are clammy and he’s covered in cold sweat. He stays still and waits, and finally Dettlaff turns around. The sadness is more pronounced now that they’re alone.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness,” Dettlaff says. There is a very faint quiver in his voice. “What I did was unforgivable. I just want you to know you will be safe.”

“Dettlaff,” Regis begins and his voice breaks. Dettlaff shakes his head as he drops his gaze to the floor. He looks thin and tired.

“You were always better than most of us, Regis. Losing you almost killed me. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but I hope you will be happy.”

He turns, and Regis moves before he knows what he is doing. There is just absolute, silent certainty that if he lets Dettlaff leave now, they will never meet again.

His hand closes around Dettlaff’s wrist. Regis knows he has no hope of stopping him, but he has to try. He’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t.

“You didn’t lose me,” Regis chokes out in a voice thick with tears. Something is ripping open inside his chest. It makes reality narrow down to just his jumbled words and the anxiety. “You don’t have to. I’m still here.”

“I almost killed you,” Dettlaff says. He turns to look at him, but does nothing to shake off Regis’ grip. Once again Regis wonders how he lived all those years without paying attention to how damned short he is. 

“I can’t stay,” Dettlaff goes on. “I am not safe.”

“I want you to stay!” Regis exclaims. A few tears slip out. Dettlaff stares at him like he suddenly forgot Common. He looks completely lost.

“You’re my brother,” Regis says as more tears fall. “And I know I will die someday, but if I could have your company until then, it would mean the world to me. You are the best friend I have ever had in all my five hundred years.”

Dettlaff doesn’t say anything, and finally Regis cracks. The day has been so fraught with tension and high feelings, and in that instant it just becomes too much. He doubles over as a sob rocks him, violent and ugly, and for a second he fears the human display of emotion will make Dettlaff go.

Then strong arms circle him and pull him closer. Regis’ chest heaves with sobs, but Dettlaff is crying too. It’s silent and tense, but he isn’t leaving. He is holding Regis in one piece, just like before. Only now it finally feels like it goes both ways; in the past, Dettlaff was reluctant to accept Regis’ help.

As they hug each other Regis dares to hope, just a little. He didn’t lose Geralt, he didn’t lose Natanis; maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to lose his brother.

When the worst of the panic passes, Dettlaff pulls back. His face look gaunt and careworn.

“I can’t promise anything,” he begins, but Regis shakes his head.

“We can talk about that later. Just—don’t disappear. I need you.”

He hasn’t said those words in years, not after he stopped needing Dettlaff to stay alive, but they are still true. Regis needs Dettlaff because they used to understand each other perfectly; even when that’s no longer possible, Regis wants to salvage as much of that as he is able.

Dettlaff gives him a tired smile. “That much is mutual. I’ve missed you. Especially after what happened.” He looks down at that. “What I said was unjust, and I’d take those words back if I could.”

“I know where that reaction was coming from.” Regis sighs. “I, too, am sorry. For not giving you a chance to help.”

Dettlaff looks like he wants to argue, so Regis shakes his head. “As I said, we can talk about this later. Now is not a good time.”

When they step outside, Regis sees the two thugs lying prone on the ground.

“They are not dead,” Dettlaff says with a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “Just sleeping.” He looks at Regis like he is suddenly afraid of offending his feelings, and Regis can’t help the laughter that escapes him. When Dettlaff gives him the baffled stare he used to direct at humans, he just laughs more. It drives away the shadow.

Dettlaff keeps walking with him, and only when Regis walks Dawn out through the Cooper’s Gate he realizes his brother is still worried. Being escorted back home makes Regis want to roll his eyes, but after what happened, he can’t really blame Dettlaff. They walk through the darkness, Dawn wickering unhappily whenever Dettlaff steps too close, and talk. Dettlaff tells Regis what he has been doing, and Regis has just enough time to recount most of the autumn before the lights of Corvo Bianco’s gate illuminate them.

During the trip back to Corvo Bianco Regis tried to come up with a way to explain Dettlaff’s presence to Geralt. Mostly he hoped he’d be able to send his brother on his way before they were seen. That way he could ease Geralt into it. All of that hope dies the moment there is a wordless shout from the yard.

Geralt parks himself between Regis and Dettlaff with a frantic stare. He isn’t wearing any armor or weapons, but his body is bowstring-tight with tension and anger. A general clamor raises up as Geralt snarls at Dettlaff, who tries to back away and explain, while Regis struggles to be heard. Dawn throws her head at the noise and tries to tug herself free.

Regis wrestles his way in front of Geralt.

“Listen to me!” he shouts. “I’m fine! He saved me!”

Geralt grabs his arm. His eyes are wide and anxious. “You need to go inside,” he says in a voice thick with fear. It’s clear not a word of what Regis says is registering. Regis feels his grip grow tighter, and only when he makes a face Geralt surfaces from his panic.

“You’re hurting me,” Regis says, and the fingers release him immediately. Geralt’s hands are shaking as they brush against his face.

“What happened?” he asks. He seems a bit less likely to lunge at Dettlaff with his bare hands now.

Regis cups his cheek. “Orianna found me. Dettlaff saved me. I’m not hurt.” He speaks slowly, and gradually some of the tension bleeds away from Geralt. He rubs his eyes and casts a furious glance at Dettlaff, who stands very still and watches them.

“Fuck,” the witcher rasps. “When I saw you, I thought— I dunno what I thought.”

“I’m fine.” Regis wants to press close. After everything that happened, he is exhausted.

“I’m sorry for all the harm I have caused,” Dettlaff says. Geralt turns to face him. He still positions himself half in front of Regis, but his expression is no longer wild with anger and fear as he meets the vampire’s eyes. 

“Orianna wanted to harm Regis. She won’t try again.” Dettlaff’s voice is very even, but Geralt frowns.

“What’s that to you?” he demands. “Regis told me your kind have a rule you don’t kill each other. And that’s it.”

“Geralt—” Regis begins, but Dettlaff looks straight at him.

“He is still my brother,” Dettlaff says. His eyes are sad but he manages a small smile. “Some things are worth becoming an outcast for.”

Regis’ breath hitches as a half-laugh, half-sob tears free. He knows Dettlaff is referring to himself and the promise of looking out for Regis, but right then it feels like the sentiment includes Regis and what he did as well. It’s almost as if Dettlaff is beginning to acknowledge the reasons that drove Regis to his solution. 

Regis only mentioned he’d grown closer with Geralt during his recuperation, but as they bid each other goodbye he knows Dettlaff can see how Geralt looks at him. What’s more, Regis can see it. It gives him pause, because Regis himself has been slow to acknowledge how their relationship developed. Now it feels like the most natural thing, like this is how their lives were supposed to go, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd just let Dettlaff _leave,_ now did you? c:


	14. Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for this chapter by [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). <3

**Favor**

/ˈfeɪvə/

_ Noun; an act of kindness beyond what is due or usual. _

_ Verb; give someone (something desired). _

_ Regis woke up to fingers ghosting over his arm. It was early, and when he opened his eyes he saw Geralt was awake. The witcher was tracing his finger along the four identical purple marks along Regis’ bicep. They had bloomed during the night, and now Geralt was mapping them out, as if to remind it had been his hand leaving them yesterday. _

_ “I’m sorry,” Geralt whispered when he noticed Regis was awake. Regis didn’t know whether he was apologizing for waking him up or for the bruises. He covered Geralt’s hand with his own. _

_ “I forgive you,” he murmured.  _

_ “I’m afraid of hurting you again.” Geralt met his eyes. “Like this, without noticing.” _

_ Regis forced himself closer to waking up. He leaned on his elbow and looked at the marks again. Then he smiled. _

_ “You let me go immediately,” he said. “I would prefer if you didn’t do it again, but I wasn’t afraid yesterday. Not of you or Dettlaff.” _

_ Geralt nodded. The troubled look didn’t vanish, but when Regis settled over his chest he relaxed and begun carding his fingers through the black curls. _

_ “Do you know what is the difference between these bruises and the ones you leave when you dominate me?” Regis asked, his eyes closed and listening to Geralt’s heart. _

_ “No?”  _

_ Regis smiled. “These were an accident, and I know you will do your best not to repeat it. Those you might give me in the other context feel like gifts.” _

_ “Gifts?” Geralt’s voice was confused, but there was an undercurrent of something Regis couldn’t name. It wasn’t alarmed, more a mixture of confusion and something almost pleased. _

_ “Yes,” Regis hummed. “I trust you as much as one can. I ask you to hurt me, you do it, and if it leaves a mark, it’s a reminder of that trust.” _

_ “Oh.” Geralt sounded breathless and—yes, pleased. Regis smiled wider as he opened his eyes again to look at his lover. _

_ “So every time I look at those marks I have a tangible, real reminder of how much I love you.” Regis said it in a soft voice, because elders, how he loved telling Geralt those words. He had wanted to feel this way for such a long time. _

_ Geralt blinked rapidly. Then his face broke into a relieved smile and he dragged Regis into a kiss. _

_ “I love you,” he murmured into it. _

***

_ Life isn’t lasting,  _ Regis thinks. Days follow one another, but the oddness comes for the irregularity. There may be weeks when nothing happens, and then all things are happening at the same time. Before Regis would have picked the exceptions apart to find patterns and most likely forced the deviation to be a part of the bigger picture.

Now, he watches as Geralt’s face lights up with incredulity and joy as he finally dares to believe his eyes, and feels no need to make this into something mundane. Regis sits back and his own smile widens into a grin when Geralt leaps over the patio railing in his bare feet and rushes over to where Cirilla is just dismounting her black mare.

“Holy shit,” Geralt laughs as he embraces his adoptive daughter. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Cirilla winks at Geralt as he finally lowers her down. She gives Regis a wave, and he mirrors it from the patio. 

“We conspired behind your back, old man. Regis got a hold of me some time ago and invited me over for Imbolc.” She runs a hand through her hair. “So here I am.”

“How on earth did he contact you?” Geralt asks. Only then does he realize that he is standing barefoot on the wet, muddy yard. A shout brings over a stable boy who takes Ciri’s horse, and the two of them make their way to the patio where Regis waits.

Cirilla strides over to Regis and gives him a hug. Regis hugs her back, and this time he doesn’t go stiff and awkward. Cirilla looks him over too.

“You’re growing old with all the dignity Geralt lacks,” she says matter-of-factly. “The black hair suits you.”

Geralt snorts and Regis laughs, and a moment later they are back indoors and Marlene is fussing over them, talking about an early dinner. Barnabas-Basil is delighted to see Cirilla again, promising to ready the guest bedroom for her immediately, and in the casual, domestic commotion Regis once again reflects how lucky he is.

Cirilla shrugs off her armor next to where Geralt’s is kept and vanishes upstairs, only to reappear a moment later with her hair down and dressed in comfortable clothing. They settle into the lounge, and Geralt looks between Regis and her again.

“Alright, spill. How the fuck did you two plan this?” He looks delighted.

“Well, as we both know, getting a hold of your daughter is no easy feat,” Regis says. He and Geralt are sharing the plush settee, with Ciri curled up on the armchair.

“No kidding,” Geralt says. Cirilla sticks out her tongue at him.

“One day I got a weird feeling that I was being followed,” she says. “At first I was sure it was a magic user, because they managed to avoid detection for a full day.”

Geralt looks at Regis. “You did not.”

Regis nods with a grin. “Dettlaff is an extremely skilled tracker, and he said he had never visited Kaedwen. I managed to narrow down Cirilla’s location that far, and then my friend got to see the countryside.”

Cirilla laughs. “He didn’t even scare me in the end. I set up a camp and warded myself, and this Dettlaff just walked up to me and told he is bringing a message from a friend.”

Geralt buries his face into his arm and groans. “Okay, great. What happened then?”

Cirilla shrugs. “It was a letter from Regis. I obviously thought it was a fake, but Dettlaff and the level of detail in the letter made me damn curious. So I decided to go to the meeting place suggested in the letter.”

Geralt looks up. His face is torn between exasperation and laughter. Cirilla sees it and rolls her eyes.

“Disguised! Regis suggested we meet at The Clever Clogs, here in Beauclair. He had seated himself in a visible place and I got the chance to watch him from where I was hiding.”

“And then she sat down next to me and stuck a knife against my carotid artery, so you can rest easy.” The memory makes Regis chuckle. “We chatted for a bit and I managed to convince her of my identity.”

Geralt starts to laugh. The tension leaves him and without thinking he reaches to run his hand down Regis’ arm. Regis sees Cirilla’s eyes track the movement as her eyebrows creep up and a knowing smile appears on her face. Regis feels how his ears start to burn but Geralt, bless his occasional obliviousness, misses it.

“Regis asked whether I felt like coming to spend a few days here,” Cirilla goes on. The smile remains on her face and Regis knows she will save the questions for later. “So here I am.”

“It’s good to see you,” Geralt says. “Stay as long as you want.”

Regis leaves Geralt and Cirilla to catch up. She interrogated him about his transformation and the subsequent changes to his life already back at the tavern, so he returns to his work. Regis continues his work at the lab until Barnabas-Basil pops in and informs him dinner will be served early.

Marlene is fond of Cirilla, and the dinner is almost decadent. Barnabas-Basil digs out several bottles of a good vintage and for the first time Regis allows himself to truly enjoy the buzz of inebriation. Not to excess, but enough for him to relax into his seat as they talk and exchange stories. 

After the dinner they migrate back to the lounge and Geralt loses five games of Gwent against Cirilla. Regis watches as they play, offering occasional comments but mostly content to watch them interact. Cirilla brings out Geralt’s easy laughter and relaxed smiles with no effort. Regis knows he, too, is able to incite those, but he is happy to see he is definitely not the only one. At some point he tucks his cold feet under Geralt’s thigh on the settee, and when the witcher makes no comment, Ciri looks at them again with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Candles are burning low by the time the last game concludes with Geralt losing by three points.

“Ah, you’re getting too damn good at this,” he says as he leans back. “Did you go and play the baron again?”

“Sure did,” Cirilla laughs. “His wife is doing better, so they’re back at the Crow’s Perch. I stayed with them for a fortnight. The baron no longer drinks. We went hunting.”

“Glad to hear that.” Geralt stifles a yawn. “I need to go hunt a wraith tomorrow, wanna come with?”

“That depends entirely on how hung over I am,” Cirilla mutters. “I swear Regis was trying his very best to get me drunk tonight.”

“I would never,” Regis laughs. 

He likes Cirilla. At the tavern, Regis spent a good half an hour apologizing for his behaviour at Stygga; the memory made his insides curl up with shame every time he thought about how he trashed the laboratory and scared a traumatized teenage girl half to death. Cirilla forgave him, her eyes full of understanding. She thanked him for saving Geralt and Yennefer from Vilgefortz, too.

Now, after spending an evening together in a casual setting, Regis can easily see who raised that girl into the woman she became. There is something undefined in her, something that makes Regis think of the best political leaders he has observed throughout history; it must be her heritage as the crown princess of Cintra, but the defining features are her easy grace and raucous laughter. Those are things Geralt must have taught her; Cirilla clearly thinks of Geralt as her father.

“Maybe it’s better to call it a night,” Geralt says with another yawn. “B-B made you a room upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Cirilla says. She gets to her feet, but when they reach the loft she suddenly pulls a confused face.

“Where is Regis sleeping?”

Regis sees her mirth, so badly does she hide it, but for some reason Geralt doesn’t. The witcher blinks as if caught in a very bright light. Then he looks at Regis like he has been betrayed in the worst possible way. 

Regis wants to roll his eyes. He didn’t tell Cirilla about his involvement with Geralt, but the witcher had clearly thought he did. Although they kept their relationship under wraps, shame was not the reason Regis stayed quiet. He simply thought it would be kinder to let Geralt deliver the news; Regis had no idea how strongly Cirilla felt about Geralt’s ended relationship with lady Yennefer, after all.

Obviously the witcher had spilled the beans by continuing to act with the same level of affection he always did when they were alone. 

“Uh.” Geralt demonstrates his usual level of eloquence. Regis knows his lover isn’t physically capable of blushing. His own ears feel like they are on fire, but then he sighs. He walks to Geralt and slots their fingers together.

“I think I will sleep in our bedroom, hm?” Regis says meaningfully, looking at Geralt. The witcher turns the helpless stare at him, but luckily that is the moment Cirilla’s face crumbles as she starts to laugh. She leans on the wall and howls with laughter. Geralt looks simultaneously mortified and affronted.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

“ _ Your face, _ ” Cirilla wheezes. She wipes away tears and grins at him and Regis. “You looked just like Lambert did when I walked in on him once, back in Kaer Morhen, when I was little.”

“Yeah, okay, I don’t want to know what he was doing,” Geralt says. The insulted expression shifts into an embarrassed smile. “But...yeah.” He gives Regis’ hand a squeeze and shrugs.

“I suspected this when I met Regis.” Cirilla straightens up and cocks her head. “Just by the way he talked about you.”

“Did you now?” Geralt smirks at Regis, who unfortunately does not have the luxury of not blushing. He doesn’t know exactly what he said that gave his feelings away, but apparently he is not as mysterious as he hopes. 

“I’m happy for you,” Cirilla says. Regis meets her eye and she nods to emphasize her words. “Both of you.”

She throws one last grin to Geralt and then vanishes into the stairway. They listen to her steps and then hear a delighted  _ “well hello, you.” _

“Nova’s still living upstairs?” Geralt asks him. Regis nods. As the weather started to grow warmer, the cat had migrated back to Regis’ former bedroom. 

As they undress for bed, Regis feels Geralt’s eyes on him. When he turns to look, the witcher gives him an embarrassed smile.

“What is it?” Regis asks. He climbs into the bed and turns to blow out the light, but Geralt drags him into a kiss. Regis ends up pinned into the mattress, breathless and confused. When Geralt pulls back, he looks at Regis with a profoundly warm expression.

“You called this  _ our bedroom _ ,” he says quietly. He looks happier than Regis has seen him in a while.

Regis feels himself blush. “I started to think of it in those terms some time ago,” he confesses softly. At his words, Geralt kisses him again. This time it’s gentle.

“Will you stay?” he asks.

Regis knows why he asks. They have been acting like committed partners, if only in private, but Regis knows Geralt is still wary of making assumptions. He doesn’t want to force Regis into anything.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to call this place home,” Regis whispers. Because Corvo Bianco is his home now. He belongs with Geralt. He wants to stop wandering and acknowledge the wish to settle down.

“Yeah, I do,” Geralt says. He looks relieved.

***

Cirilla stays for a whole week. She and Geralt carve their way through every single monster contract they can find, and Regis gets to patch both of them up after they stumble upon a chort when tracking what they initially thought to be a pack of alghouls. Both of them listen to Regis’ grumbling with sulking expressions, as he sews up a gash on Cirilla’s arm and pops Geralt’s clavicle back to its right place. The very same evening they are back to their good humor, and Regis finds he wouldn’t want to change a thing.

The morning of her departure comes too soon. None of them mentions it, but it’s clear Cirilla isn’t one for staying too long in one place. 

Geralt hugs her for a long while and then watches her ride off. She is accompanied by Barnabas-Basil and Marlene in a small wagon; the witcheress was curious to visit the apothecary in Beauclair, and the majordomo and the cook were more than happy to show her the location.

“Are you alright?” Regis asks as Geralt comes back inside. He presses close, and the witcher hugs him.

“Mm. Yeah. Gonna miss her,” Geralt mutters into his hair. Regis feels him smile. “Thanks for inviting her over.”

“Anytime.” Regis presses a kiss to Geralt’s collarbone. The witcher tilts his head up and the kiss that follows quickly heats up. Geralt backs him against the sturdy dresser and pushes a leg between his thighs. Regis swallows thickly, because at this point his body has formed a direct association between Geralt being assertive and pleasure.

His back arches as Geralt keeps kissing him. Because they can be sure no one will disturb them, Regis doesn’t even try to stifle the moan that escapes when Geralt bites his lip. His golden eyes look dark and thoughtful when he pulls back.

“I think I know what I wanna do today,” he murmurs. With that, he simply pushes his hands under Regis’ thighs and lifts him up. Regis gasps as he wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist and feels how hard they both are. Geralt carries him to the bedroom and then puts him down close to the wall.

“Lean back,” he says in that same dark voice. “And put your hands up.”

Regis presses the backs of his hands against the wall, even when he desperately wants to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair. The witcher watches him for a while, and then he kneels down. He pushes Regis’ shirt up and kisses his stomach, tongue swiping before moving on. Regis’ breathing gets heavy, and as Geralt slowly undresses him he has to remind himself not to move.

Once he is completely naked, Geralt takes another moment to look him over. His eyes soften, but that purposeful desire never dims; Regis feels so exposed standing there, but it’s a good, heady feeling. He feels seen.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Geralt whispers. It’s almost low enough so Regis doesn’t catch that, but he does, and hearing it makes his blush deepen. Geralt’s smile takes on a hungrier tint.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, pinning Regis’ hips in place as he licks a slow, torturous line up Regis’ cock. “I love this, watching you strain to stay still just because I ask you to.” His lips ghost over the tip of Regis’ cock. 

Regis distantly registers his hands are bunched into fists as he fights to stay put. Geralt keeps teasing him and Regis closes his eyes. Touches ghost over his skin, dragging him deeper into the hazy space where the rest of the world ceases to matter. Only this does.

Slick fingers push into him, not exactly gently, and Regis’ hips buck. A hard gasp rocks him as Geralt pushes against him, his free hand resting against his throat. It pushes down just enough to remind Regis he has no way to get free. The fingers shove deeper and Regis whimpers, and Geralt’s leg forces his thighs apart.

“Come on,” Geralt purrs to him. “Try. Get free.”

Regis tries to pull away, create some space for himself, but it’s hopeless; Geralt holds him down with little effort, and when Regis’ breathing grows ragged he kisses him. There’s not a hint of gentleness in it, his tongue delving into Regis’ mouth and the hand pushing against his windpipe. Regis tries to turn his head away but Geralt’s hand moves just enough to grip his jaw, and then he keeps taking what he wants.

When Geralt pulls back he is grinning. Regis has just enough time to drag in a breath, and then Geralt pushes his trousers down and lifts him up again.

“ _ Ohh— _ ” Regis gutters as Geralt pushes in with an astonishing amount of coordination. The hands gripping Regis’ thighs are surely leaving bruises; the grip is hard enough to hurt. Regis starts to gasp for air as Geralt fucks him against the wall. He has no leverage to move himself or to get away, and his hands fist helplessly into Geralt’s shirt. 

“Please, please—” Regis has no idea what he is pleading for, but as Geralt picks up the pace he loses the rest of the words and shudders apart. 

“You’re  _ mine _ ,” Geralt growls as his movements grow urgent and his fingers dig still deeper.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Regis gasps. He is edging towards climax, but right when it starts to mount Geralt comes, biting his neck almost hard enough to break skin. Regis sobs as Geralt stills and bites down again. For a while the witcher holds him up and pants, but then he pulls back enough to look at him. His hair is escaping the ponytail and his eyes are impossibly dark.

“I’m going to let you down, and you’ll get on the bed. On you hands and knees.” His voice penetrates the haze that has taken over Regis’ head, and he can only nod. Geralt eases out and Regis’ knees almost buckle when his feet hit the floor. He rushes to obey the instructions, and as he settles on the bed he feels cum trickle out. It probably shouldn’t make him shudder with pleasure. Geralt notices. 

Fingers push inside again, and Regis sobs. He is so hard he is hurting, his cock bobbing between his legs hard and flushed deep red.

“Touch yourself.” Geralt says close to his ear. He shoves his fingers deeper as he does, and it takes Regis a moment to understand what he is saying.

A sharp pain explodes across his left buttock. Regis rocks forward at the force of it. Another follows, and only then he realizes Geralt is hitting him with his bare hand.

“I told you to touch yourself,” Geralt growls. His free hand grips Regis by his hair as the other smooths over the place he hit. “Don’t make me say it again. ”

Regis finally manages enough coherence to start stroking himself. Another hit follows, just as hard as the previous ones, and a hoarse shout escapes.

“Good,” Geralt murmurs, hand still gripping his hair so hard it brings tears into his eyes. “You’re going to cum while I spank you.”

“Yes,” Regis breathes. He speeds up his hand because he is getting desperate for it, and Geralt resumes hitting him, hard enough to bruise, everywhere he can reach, and Regis loses most of coherence. There’s just the hot, blinding pain, everywhere at once, and his mounting pleasure, stuttering and crawling towards its peak as his movements grow more and more uncoordinated.

His climax hit him like a lighting to face. A shout rips free as he pulses, seed coating his hand and the strikes landing on raw skin. He rocks forward and Geralt steadies him through it, words flowing without meaning, just letting Regis know someone will catch him once the freefall ends.

A long silence follows. Regis slumps as his muscles release all tension, ears ringing and whole body shaking. Strong hands ease him down. His body goes boneless with sheer exhaustion. There are no thoughts, just a gentle haze. 

The familiar, warm hands clean him and then hold him close. When Regis finally forces his eyes open, the shivering just grows stronger. Geralt kisses his brow. His hands are steady and they hold him as Regis’ body tries to shake itself apart.

“Hey, hey,” Geralt murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s alright.” His voice is low and soothing, and Regis knows it’s true, but his body doesn’t, not just yet. He buries his face into Geralt’s neck and focuses on breathing, in and out, as he rides out the adrenaline and slowly, slowly surfaces most of the way from the haze. Geralt talks to him all that time, and his voice is a familiar path to follow back into the real world.

When most of the trembling dies down Regis realizes a lot of time has passed; the light no longer has the bright yellow of the early afternoon. Geralt meets his gaze with a smile.

“Welcome back.” 

Regis blows out a breath and snuggles closer. “What time is it?” His voice comes out in a quiet murmur.

“Dunno,” Geralt chuckles into his hair. “You’re were pretty out of it for over an hour. How are you feelin’?”

“Good,” Regis says. He slowly catalogues the physical dimension. His ass and thighs are still on fire. Geralt cleaned him thoroughly, so he is only feeling a little sticky. And his head is very silent and still. “My head’s so quiet. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Geralt laughs. It’s a happy, relaxed sound. “You’re gonna love the bruises.”

Regis laughs too. He knows he will have trouble sitting down tomorrow.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. He is already sinking back into a doze, as is usual for him after they play like this. 

Geralt drags a duvet over them both and settles comfortably on his back. Regis loves this bit as much as he loves the sessions themselves; afterwards he dozes, plastered to Geralt’s side, as the witcher reads or naps. It’s a ritual at this point, and just as important part of the aftercare as the cleanup.

“Hey,” Geralt says just when Regis is falling asleep. He makes a questioning sound without opening his eyes. 

“I’m happy with you.”

Regis is almost slipping into unconsciousness, but he sets his hand over Geralt’s heart. He feels a pleased chuckle vibrate under it, and then he sleeps.

####  Epilogue

Orianna watches from the shadows as Regis bids goodbye to a woman with reddish blonde hair and then walks across the vineyard grounds towards the villa. He is not in a hurry, and something about his easy steps rattles her.

Regis has truly become human. He knows, has to know what lurks just out of sight, what kind of inhuman creatures live among humankind, and yet he looks so calm. Orianna draws in a hissing breath, but it is far too quiet for him to hear. Regis huddles against the cool night air, clearly wanting to get back indoors, and not paying much mind to anything else.

The sound of hooves clicking against the paved yard draws Orianna’s gaze, and she flies to the roof of the stables. She can smell the witcher, leather, sweat, and silver, and a moment later she hears Regis’ footsteps.

“I thought I heard something.” Regis sounds openly delighted, and Geralt of Rivia answers with a low chuckle.

“You and Sonja played cards again?”

“We did. We lost track of time, I was just returning home.”

_ Home.  _ The word makes Orianna sneer. To think that Regis can say that so easily, and to a witcher... 

“If you wanna help, go get dinner ready. I’ll be up in a bit.”

“Certainly.”

She hears it, Regis shuffling closer and then a low, pleased noise the witcher makes as Regis kisses him. She whips her head around and flies off, unable to stomach any more.

The hill overlooking Corvo Bianco is not deserted when she lands. There is a second of unease as Orianna mistakes the figure for a human, but then she realizes she can’t smell a thing. The thing that appears to be a man is like a hole in the world.

“It would seem I am not the only curious person around these parts,” the creature says in a mocking tone. Orianna meets his eyes, clinging to her human guise even when she just materialized from a wisp of smoke.

The man looks her up and down and then grins. “Another one? Are you perchance worried about your former brethren?”

“He is no brother of mine,” Orianna hisses. Her words come out clipped and with more emotional residue clinging to them than she would have volunteered.

The man sweeps a bow that somehow meets every criteria of perfect politeness and still feels like a personal insult. When he straightens up, his eyes are growing curious.

“So, you just dropped in to say hi, then? Only our barber-surgeon appears to be busy with the witcher at the moment.”

Orianna looks away. This being that is playing a man unsettles her, and there aren’t many things that can do that. She could just fly away, but there is a nebulous unease settling into the pit of her stomach; if this is the being that changed Regis into a human, what is he doing here?

“And what business might you have here?” she quips.

“Curiosity,” the man pronounces carefully. “Emiel Regis was the first of your kind I have ever made a deal with. I wanted to see how he is doing.”

“He’s alive. Scorning his heritage and pulling every single one of us to shame,” Orianna says, but even she can hear how weary it comes out. It is tedious to stay angry when you can’t do anything about the source of it.

“Just so,” the man laughs. “That looks an awful lot like an existence to be scorned.” He is silent for a moment, and then makes a thoughtful sound. “Curious.”

Orianna looks at him again and raises an eyebrow. “You took his immortality. What else could you possibly want from him?”

“That is the reason I am here, my lady,” the man says. He dusts down his gaudy tunic and meets her gaze with those uncanny eyes of his. “This was a deal of many firsts. My first trade-off with a higher vampire, but also the first time I collected my due before the person dies.”

“What are you?” Orianna asks. She feels fear trying to worm into her heart, and crushes it without mercy.

“Gaunter O’Dimm. Merchant of mirrors.” The man, O’Dimm, looks like he knows exactly how vague and frustrating an answer he is offering, and Orianna snorts.

“ _ God?  _ You couldn’t come up with anything less ostentatious?”

“It is not a name I picked for myself, alas,” O’Dimm says with an apologetic shrug. “I give people what they yearn for.”

“And then claim their spirits,” Orianna finishes the sentence. “Only this time you were given something different.”

“Quite so,” O’Dimm says. “And it kept bothering me. My dear lady, you must understand: encountering something new when you get past a certain age is so unusual.”

Orianna is able to tell that Gaunter O’Dimm’s age dwarfs hers by centuries upon centuries. The aether curls around him, like even it wishes to steer clear of the creature.

“He is so  _ happy _ ,” O’Dimm says, and Orianna focuses her gaze outwards again. The man is looking towards the villa and frowning. “He lost an eternity, and it doesn’t bother him at all. He is happy to live this tiny, insignificant life, with full knowledge that he will pass away; that the witcher he loves so deeply will pass away, and all the little friends he is making.”

That is exactly the source of Orianna’s anger, but understanding she shares something with this being makes her recoil. She steps back like a prowling beast, wanting to shake off the dirty feeling threatening to claim her.

“You must leave him alone,” she says in a deathly quiet whisper.

O’Dimm turns to stare at her. For the first time he looks genuinely surprised.

“Pardon?” he asks, almost laughing. “Why would you care? He is but a human.”

“He used to be something else.” She doesn’t believe what she is saying, but the words are coming from a well of unformed feelings and eternal, weary hurt.

For a second she remembers different kinds of nights, with different feelings: disbelieving and reluctant kinship. The wish to partake in human society, to be one of them in appearance if never in spirit. Regis, much younger but already then wiser than his years, giving her advice and offering his company.

And then the moment when their paths split. Regis’ horrified rejection of the orphanage, and her stubborn insistence that their kind,  _ her kind _ , were not meant to stifle their urges as he did. Arguments, insults, and finally Regis leaving Beauclair to settle in Dillingen.

“I see.” O’Dimm is looking at her with a half-formed expression. She can’t decipher it before it is gone. 

O’Dimm cracks his neck in a poor mimicry of a human gesture, and turns away from the villa. Orianna follows him with her eyes, not understanding at all what the creature is thinking. She was gearing up for a fight she would have sworn she’d never take part in, and suddenly all threat is dissipating from the air.

“Keep me in mind, my lady,” O’Dimm throws over his shoulder. “Perhaps one day you will want for something.”

“That day will never come,” Orianna says, but she knows she is alone. O’Dimm is gone, and the spring night sounds return. She rubs her fingers over her eyes, smudging her makeup, and turns back towards to vineyard. There is no movement in the yard anymore, but a flickering light burns in one of the villa’s windows.

_ Maybe he has found a family.  _ The words Dettlaff said echo in her mind. He came to find Orianna again once tempers had cooled and they made peace, of sorts. Their kind could hold a grudge, but Dettlaff wasn’t one of them. He wanted to deal with things as they happened, and Orianna had relented, just a little; she would leave Regis alone, no matter how badly his newfound humanity unsettled her.

She knows that losing the blood bond had resulted in Dettlaff’s lapse of judgement, and he wanted to fix things. She’d felt Dettlaff’s anguish before they found out what had happened to Regis, but she would have never guessed it could overpower his mind so thoroughly he would attempt to harm his former blood-brother. 

Dettlaff sought her out after the incident, and when Orianna heard what he had almost done, she had slapped him so hard his jaw had broken. It healed before even Orianna herself could tell why she had reacted in such a way. She and Regis had parted ways decades and decades ago, so why the thought of Regis dying a human death rattled her so?

Orianna watches the light in the villa window for a long time. She has no wish to go closer and witness the domesticity Regis undoubtedly shares with the witcher. Instead she thinks back to her meeting with Regis and wonders whether he truly believed Orianna would harm him. Dettlaff certainly did.

Maybe she should have picked another way to drive her point home.

Finally she turns away. Her thoughts are clouded and dim, and there is an eternity stretching before her. On most days it feels like a possibility, an endless dance; some nights it drags her down. Both sides of the coin are hers to keep.

“Take the days,” she whispers into the aether. “And take them all.”

Then she leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear reader. Thank you so much for taking the time and reading this story. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The End of Gifts: Fringe Chapters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901464) by [conaffettokiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conaffettokiko/pseuds/conaffettokiko), [merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir)


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